Christmas Cards
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Christian and Leslie exchange holiday stories while decorating their Christmas tree.  Follows 'King of Pain'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Here's the opening chapter of a holiday story whose initial idea was dreamed up by Mishee (thanks for this, I needed it this time of year!)—but it's multi-holiday, not just Christmas. However, in view of "tis" being "the season", I started out with the Christmas anecdote. Happy Whatever You Celebrate, or Happy December if you don't!

* * *

_

§ § § - December 4, 2006

Leslie came in from a trip to the post office Monday morning to find Christian assembling the family Christmas tree. "Oh, good," she said, lighting up. "I'm just in time."

Christian looked around and grinned at her. "So you are. You'll notice that I have a few other would-be helpers." The triplets were swarming around his calves, handing him upper branches to place in the holes of the steel "trunk" faster than he could insert them, all the while chattering in a hilarious mix of English and _jordiska_ that was half unintelligible anyway. "Better this than some of the ornaments, though."

She laughed and, having shed her shoes, came into the living room with a bundle of envelopes in one hand. "I'm sure they can't decide whether it's Santa or _Julanissa_ who's bringing them presents."

"Knowing them, they'll decide it'll be both." Christian grinned again when she snickered, and took a branch from Tobias. "Thank you, son. Are we already getting cards?"

"Sure are." Leslie flopped onto the sofa and slit open an envelope, withdrawing a card that had been signed by Nick, Myeko, Alexander, Noelle and, in sprawling, writhing capital letters, Dawn. "Wow. Looks like Myeko taught Dawn to write her name after all."

Christian peered at the card and chuckled. "Good for her. Is there anything from Lilla Jordsö? I confess to worrying that we're going to end up with a house-sized package one day, and that everything in it will be for these three."

"Well, not today," Leslie said with a laugh, extracting a card from the pile and handing it to him. "Not unless it's coming separately. You know, it's fun getting cards…I used to miss that."

Christian looked curiously around at her. "Missed getting cards? You mean no one sent you any when you were a child?"

She shrugged, slightly surprised at herself that she was able to look back on it now without more than a faint pang of wistfulness. "Not ones that seemed to count. I got cards from my friends, sure. And my friends and I would exchange presents, and of course Father and Tattoo made a point of giving me a card each year. But it just wasn't the same. My friends would remark about how they got the usual fruitcake from some dotty old aunt in the states somewhere, or the same gaudy, flashy trick card would come from Great-uncle Whosis from whatever remote corner of the planet he was spending Christmas in that year, or there'd be a small and very formal, but totally useless, gift from a relative in Hawaii—that was usually Myeko's complaint. I never got to tell them stories about how I'd get yet another hand-knitted scarf from a grandparent, or something, and I missed it."

Christian had paused in the tree-building and was regarding her with his full attention. "Hmm," he mused. "I'm sorry, my Rose, I can only imagine how you must have felt."

"Left out, mostly," she admitted, "and lonely. Father and Tattoo really tried to make my Christmases special, but there always seemed to be something missing, and there was nothing they could do about it. Which sort of got me in trouble one year."

"How so?" he asked, flinching when Susanna prodded him in the leg with the end of a branch. "All right, all right, I'll finish, I promise." He took it from the child, who nodded in self-satisfaction and promptly turned to fetch another.

"Finish putting that together first," Leslie suggested. "Ingrid offered to take the kids to the beach this afternoon so we could decorate in peace and without broken ornaments."

He grinned. "Wonderful. All right, we'll wait till then."

A couple of hours later, with Ingrid and the triplets long gone to the beach (Jonathan having picked them up), Christian and Leslie had retrieved their Christmas lights and ornaments from their usual storage place and had begun stringing lights on the tree. "I can never understand," Christian was muttering as he tested each string, "how the servants managed to put up both castle trees every year without a single hitch, and yet every year since you and I were married, one of our strings of lights always fails to work."

Leslie giggled. "Murphy's Law, probably. Don't worry, we'll work it out—we always do. If you have to get another string, they're on sale in town this week."

"I'll bet," Christian said wryly, giving her a look that made her laugh. "Well, if you're trying to entertain me enough to keep me from losing my temper over yet another burned-out light string, then why don't you tell me how you almost got in trouble one Christmas."

"Oh yeah." Leslie smiled ruefully and settled herself into a nearby chair, watching Christian laboriously testing each individual bulb in search of the ultimate culprit that had caused the light failure. "Oddly enough, it was in my last year of high school. The Halloween parties were always at Myeko's, but we all used to trade off the Christmas parties we went to. It was always just the six of us—me, Camille, Myeko, Michiko, Lauren and Maureen. Frida used to go to parties with her friend Michelle, and I think Michelle was one of the Coral Island kids. Well, by the fourth year someone realized I hadn't done my share, and it led to quite a situation…"

§ § § - December 13, 1982

"Hmm," murmured Michiko at lunch that Monday, after Leslie had finished describing the previous weekend's fantasies. "I suppose we have to figure out now whose turn it is to host our Christmas party."

"Oh, geez," muttered Lauren. "Why couldn't we just go to somebody else's party for a change? I mean, it's such a hassle, especially with all the presents we have to buy. My allowance never stretches far enough to cover all you guys."

"But we've been doing this every year since junior high," Camille protested. "Why stop now? I mean, we're seniors, this is probably the last year we'll ever do this."

"Why should it be?" asked Maureen. "We might have to stop when we go to college, but if we all plan to live on the island after that, we could still have them then."

"People have a way of drifting apart," Michiko said gently. "Camille might be right. Let's see…who's up this year?"

"I did it last year," Maureen said. The other girls smiled; they remembered how well fed they'd been, thanks to Maureen's mother's catering service.

Michiko nodded. "And I did it the year before, and then Camille in freshman year. And Lauren did it in eighth grade."

"What about Myeko?" Leslie asked.

"Oh, she always hosts the Halloween parties, so we let her off the hook for the Christmas ones," Camille explained, glancing around the table as she spoke and then giving Leslie a particular look. "Guess what, Leslie—it's your turn this year."

"Oh," said Leslie, taken aback. "Well…"

"Is there a problem?" Myeko asked.

Leslie cleared her throat. "Well…I don't know. I mean…well…" She felt herself turning brilliant crimson under her friends' stares. "I'll have to ask Mr. Roarke, that's all."

Maureen grinned. "This year's party should be a blast, then. Mr. Roarke's cook will give us all the food we want and then some, and he always has that beautiful tree in his study. We might even be able to hang out in your room for a slumber party."

"I can ask," Leslie said faintly, shrugging. Never having hosted a party in her life, she was completely clueless as to how to go about organizing one. "What would I do?"

"Like Maureen said, just ask Mana'olana to make the eats," Myeko said. "You don't really have to do much else, just have a tape player and lots of good music to listen to, and don't forget the presents."

"And make sure the parents stay out of sight," Lauren added, then grinned. "In your case, Mr. Roarke and Tattoo."

"Well, okay," Leslie murmured. What she didn't voice was her doubt that her party would be anything but dull. Her friends' mothers had helped do the organizing and some of the decorating; and somehow, every year when they had managed to run out of refreshments in spite of themselves, someone's mother had always been there to go out for more. Leslie thought about it while the girls finished lunch and then scattered to their classes for the afternoon; finally she decided, with more hope than conviction, that everything would probably work out just fine. If Mr. Roarke was busy, she considered, then they could very likely rely on Tattoo to help.

As it turned out, the obstacle was much bigger than she had imagined. The study looked quite festive, as the tree had been up for the last two weeks already and there were strings of small white Christmas lights outlining every window in the house, including the upstairs rooms. A tremendous potted poinsettia sat to one side of Roarke's desk, and a few wrapped boxes reposed beneath the tree. Tattoo, wearing a Santa hat, was on the phone; Roarke was apparently out at the moment. The Frenchman waved at her as she came in, and she waved back and hurried upstairs long enough to put away her schoolbooks.

When she got back down, Roarke had returned, and he and Tattoo both greeted her. "How was school?" Roarke inquired.

"The usual," said Leslie, shrugging. "We're all really looking forward to Christmas vacation."

Tattoo grinned, and Roarke chuckled, turning a page in his date book and running over the dates with the top end of a pen, in search of something. "I'm sure you are."

"We talked about our annual Christmas party," Leslie said and took a deep breath. "And the girls figured out that this year it's my turn to host it."

Roarke paused, and he and Tattoo both stared at her. "Oh?" Roarke queried, frowning slightly. "Where do you propose to have it?"

Leslie cast a nervous look around the room. "In here," she said, half questioning.

"And when is it scheduled to take place?" her guardian prodded further.

"I thought maybe…say, the first Monday of school vacation?" Leslie's voice was more querulous than ever. "And you know how it always turns into a slumber party? And maybe Mana'olana could make the food for us…? And we…" She trailed off when she saw Roarke's expression grow forbidding.

"That would require a great deal of advance planning, and if you wish to hold the party on the first Monday of your vacation, that gives you only a week," he pointed out. "I'm sorry, Leslie, but aside from the short notice, I'm afraid it won't be possible. You might perhaps have the party itself in the dining room, if you were inclined to decorate it accordingly, but your friends won't be able to stay overnight. There's not enough space in your bedroom, as I'm sure you're well aware. And you realize, of course, that even without fantasies taking place, there are vacationing guests who come in and out of this office nearly around the clock. You and your friends would find the constant interruptions quite a trial."

"But…I mean, the dining room would be fine," Leslie said, almost frantic, "but there's no reason they can't stay in my room. There'll be only five other girls besides me, and they always bring sleeping bags. It's more fun in close quarters anyway, then we can talk."

She knew that was a mistake when Roarke's brows strained for his hairline. "Yes, I'm well aware that one aspect of so-called 'slumber' parties is to do anything but slumber."

Desperate, Leslie willingly begged. "Please, Mr. Roarke—Monday's our slowest day, you know that…it wouldn't be that bad. Please."

"Leslie," Roarke said, his tone lightly warning, "I have already explained to you that we can't allow it. Furthermore, you know very well that your friends' curiosity about my business has you talking every Monday. Knowing what they know, they will undoubtedly want to see more of the behind-the-scenes aspects of things—that room, for instance." He indicated the closed door of the time-travel room.

"Mr. Roarke, we're seventeen years old…some of us are almost eighteen!" Leslie cried, offended. "We're not little kids who have to be told what's forbidden! And I know Mana'olana wouldn't mind making the food, she always makes more than we can eat anyway—"

"There's another matter," Roarke said dauntingly. "Mana'olana always fills in at the hotel this season, Leslie, or did you forget that?"

"So you mean…I can't have the party at all?" she cried, horrified.

"I'm sorry, child," Roarke said, softening. "I know you want to do your part, but under the circumstances it isn't possible."

Leslie shook her head in despair. "Well, that's just great…now all the girls are going to hate me because I haven't done my share. It's my turn and I know it. I don't want them seeing me as some kind of moocher. It's not fair, Mr. Roarke." Without waiting for a response, she fled to her room and shut herself inside.

She refused to go down for supper and remained in her room the rest of the evening, dreading the next day at school. She was feeling more than a little put out as well, for even Tattoo didn't come up to say anything to her. She supposed she'd thrown something of a tantrum about the party, but she felt awful. Her friends had all taken their turns hosting the parties, and their mothers had been good sports about it. It made Leslie miss her own mother, as she had always done during holidays. _Mom would've gone right ahead and started making plans,_ Leslie reflected morosely. _She'd have been so thrilled I had friends to do this with, she'd have said yes and done all the cooking and decorating and taken me out shopping to get my friends' presents, and everything… _ She dropped her head on her desk and indulged in feeling sorry for herself. It was bad enough being motherless at all, without having to feel especially shortchanged during the holidays.

"So what's the word on the party?" Myeko asked the following day at lunch.

Leslie bit her lip and hung her head, mumbling, "Mr. Roarke said no."

"What do you mean, he said no?" Lauren asked, astonished. "I thought it wouldn't be any problem."

"I thought so too," Leslie said, unable to meet the other girls' gazes. "But he said with the short notice, and all the vacationers tromping in and out asking questions…plus, he says my room's too small to hold everybody, and that Mana'olana's too busy to make food…"

"So you're just not going to bother, then?" Camille demanded, in her usual blunt way. "Geez, Leslie, all the rest of us have had the party. You know it's your turn."

"I know that," Leslie snapped at her, driven past endurance. "You don't have to keep reminding me like I'm some sort of idiot."

Michiko seemed to take pity on her. "Well, look, one of us could do it again. I don't mind being the hostess for this year's party—"

"No way," Camille said flatly. "We always take turns, and this year it's Leslie's, and she's trying to get out of it."

"I am not," Leslie flung at her. "I just said Mr. Roarke won't allow it."

"But it's still your turn," Lauren said, a little hesitantly.

"Yeah," Myeko agreed. "I mean, I'd do it, but Mom made me choose—either Halloween or Christmas, not both. She said she couldn't handle more than one major party a year. So I really can't. And, well…it _is_ your turn, Leslie."

"_I know!"_ Leslie all but screamed, startling her friends. She shook her head hard, hastily repacked her half-eaten lunch and grabbed her books. "Maybe you'll all let me get out of here while I try to figure out some way to go behind Mr. Roarke's back for this party!" She fled the lunchroom, half blinded by tears of frustration, wondering if she really had the guts to defy her guardian's veto of the party plans. How had it come down to either satisfying her friends' sense of fair play, or obeying Roarke's edict?

Michiko and Maureen caught up with her before she could hide in a girls' restroom stall. "Hey, Leslie, come on, we didn't mean to push you," Maureen said.

"There's no reason to hide," Michiko added.

"Well, if I can't host the party, what'm I supposed to do?" Leslie demanded, at her wits' end. "I know it's my turn, I know it wouldn't be fair to ask one of you to take my place. I wish they'd quit telling me that. They must think I'm retarded."

"Why couldn't you have it someplace besides the main house?" Maureen suggested, levelheaded as always. "I mean, heck—remember your birthday party a couple years ago at the ice rink? Or maybe there's someplace else that isn't being used right now."

"Right," Michiko put in eagerly. "And who says Mana'olana has to be the one to make the food? Maybe you could do it. It's not like you can't cook, you said she's taught you how to make some stuff."

"But it wouldn't be like last year's," Leslie said morosely.

Maureen rolled her eyes. "Leslie, we're not expecting caviar and canapés, for crying out loud. You don't even have to make your own food if you don't feel like it. Just go out and get chips and soda and cookies or something. It's not that big a deal, and we don't have to have a sleepover. As long as there's food and good music, and we have a place to give each other our Christmas presents, then heck, that's all we need."

Leslie thought about it, feeling slightly more optimistic. "Huh. Well, maybe I could still do it. I guess I can ask around and see if someplace is free. I mean…if it comes down to it, we could have it in the Japanese teahouse."

Maureen and Michiko laughed. "See, there you go," Maureen said in approval. "Now you're thinking. Now just grab that and run with it, and next thing you know, we'll have a party. And it'll be fun, too. Come on, come back with us and finish your lunch."

The bell rang just then and Leslie snorted. "Guess that's out. Well, anyway, thanks for coming after me and talking some sense into me. You guys are real friends."

"That's what friends are for, if you don't mind a dopey cliché," Michiko said, grinning. "We better get to class. And if you need more ideas, just ask us."

The rest of the day was something of a loss for Leslie, whose mind was occupied with coming up with a party venue. The ice rink was probably out; after her own fifteenth-birthday party there, it had become a popular place for island kids to celebrate their birthdays, and was often booked. The hotel was definitely out, as was the pond restaurant. She barely noticed when Michiko thumped into the seat beside her on the shuttle bus for home; she was still racking her brain.

"Having trouble?" Michiko inquired when her greeting went unanswered.

Leslie blinked. "Oh…sorry. Yeah, I guess so. I'm still trying to think of a good place to have the party." At that moment an idea popped into her head. "Hey…maybe I could do it at the old opera house! It practically never gets used."

"That's a great idea," said Michiko with an enthusiastic nod.

"We could even sleep over in there—there's loads of space," Leslie mused. "I could set up tables for our snacks and another one for the boom box and our tapes, and we could dance if we wanted to." For the first time she began to feel optimistic about the party. "You know, this just might work out after all."

Michiko giggled. "See, you're on a roll. Before you know it you'll have so many good ideas you won't be able to use them all."

The main house was deserted when Leslie got in, and she frowned, wondering where Roarke and Tattoo were. There was no note, and she sighed heavily. They could be back anytime, and she had a perverse wish not to let them know what she was hoping to do. For all she knew, Roarke would decide to nix her latest idea, and she wasn't about to let her friends down again, especially after their skepticism at lunch today.

She settled gingerly into Roarke's desk chair and pulled the telephone toward her. She had wished off and on that she had one in her own room, but Roarke frowned on such indulgences; so she would just have to do what she could while she had the chance. She did remember, at least, that she had to check with the hotel manager with any questions regarding the old opera house, so she called the hotel and asked to be put through.

"May I help you?" a voice asked a moment later.

"Yeah…hi, this is Leslie Hamilton," she said nervously. "I was just calling to see if the old opera house is being used on December twentieth and twenty-first."

"Let me see," the voice murmured, and Leslie suppressed a gasp of surprise before she realized the manager probably thought she was checking on something for Roarke. She didn't bother disabusing him of the notion; if she could get the go-ahead to use the opera house, she didn't mind leaving out convenient details.

"No, it's free on both those days, Miss Leslie," the voice said then, and she pumped a fist into the air. _First hurdle cleared! _ "Does Mr. Roarke need it?"

_Spoke too soon, stupid._ "No…uh, no, I need it actually. It's…a school thing," she improvised with clumsy haste. "A…a small Christmas party."

"Oh, I see. Let us know if you need anything, then," the voice suggested, and Leslie thanked him and hung up. Blowing out a deeply relieved breath, she replaced the phone in its usual spot and got up, pushing Roarke's chair carefully back where she had found it and then scrambling upstairs to get rid of her books. The next thing she had to do was get into town and buy some refreshments and decorations. _After all, I want the place to look Christmasy, right? Oh, and then I gotta get the girls' presents…_

She got the decorations first: a one-foot Christmas tree, pre-strung with lights; a package of miniature ornaments to hang on it; several disposable paper tablecloths with holiday motifs; and red and green crepe paper rolls to string over the ceiling. Then she browsed several small shops in the pedestrian shopping area, finding a silver charm bracelet for Michiko and a commemorative Fantasy Island-themed Christmas ornament for Maureen before pausing long enough to wonder about the other girls. _After the way they were at lunch today…oh, phooey, they'll shut up quick enough when they find out what I'm planning. No point in holding grudges._ She found a _Star Trek_ novel for Lauren, a stuffed polar bear for Myeko, and finally a hard-rock tape for Camille, and stashed her purchases away into the bag of decorations before heading for the town grocery and choosing various chips, snack cakes, cookies, soda and a bag of Hershey's Kisses wrapped in Christmas-colored foil.

The first snag came up when she brought all this to the checkout counter and discovered, to her mortified horror, that she had exactly three dollars left after buying the gifts and decorations. The cashier offered, "I could put it on Mr. Roarke's house account, if you want, Miss Leslie."

She considered allowing this, then decided there was too much chance of having her guardian find out what had happened. "No, I'd better not," she murmured. "Well, thanks anyway." She did buy the bag of foil-wrapped chocolates, which set her back to possessing a grand total of thirty cents, and then started for home, lost in vaguely panicky thought about what she was going to do for refreshments. She could probably dip into the savings account Roarke had helped her set up here not long after her fourteenth birthday; but she wasn't too sanguine about that either. She was just too afraid her activities would get back to her guardian and the entire thing would come completely unraveled.

It almost did when she came into the study and saw that Roarke was there, scheduling fantasies. "Well," he said, "and where have you been all afternoon?"

"Shopping," she said. "Christmas presents for my friends."

Roarke took in the size of the bag she was toting. "You're evidently being quite generous to them this year," he commented.

She shrugged sheepishly, hoping he wouldn't ask to see what she'd bought. "Oh, well, they've gotten me some really nice things before," she said lamely. "What about you, where were you all day? You and Tattoo didn't leave a note."

Roarke smiled faintly. "Attending to the usual necessities in preparation for next weekend's fantasies, of course," he reminded her. She felt her face heat with a fierce blush; this was not uncommon, and Roarke had told her during her first week on the island that he and Tattoo would often be gone when she got home from school.

"Oh, yeah, of course," Leslie mumbled. "Well, anyway…I have to get this stuff wrapped up." She streaked upstairs and shut herself in her room again, groaning softly as she did so.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § - December 15, 1982

"The old opera house? That's really cool!" blurted Myeko on Wednesday at lunch. "How'd you ever manage that? Especially since Mr. Roarke nixed the party idea."

Camille, upon hearing this last, looked at Leslie with an impressed light in her eyes. "Are you kidding? You mean you're going behind his back? Wow," she said admiringly, "you got really sneaky. Good for you."

Leslie blushed again. "It's not like it's my choice," she protested weakly. "If he hears about this—especially now that I've gotten this far—he'll probably derail it all. So I kind of have to sneak. Even Tattoo doesn't know what I'm doing."

Her friends looked at one another, but no one said anything. Then Michiko cleared her throat. "What'd you bring for lunch today, everybody?"

That afternoon Leslie casually greeted Roarke and Tattoo in the study and went up to her room, ostensibly to do homework. In fact she sat on the bed trying to think of what to do about the refreshments, while using a fraction of her attention to finish wrapping the presents she had bought her friends.

Someone knocked on her door and she started, dropping the tape she had bought for Camille. "Yeah?" she blurted, scrambling to her desk and throwing open a textbook and notebook. She was just in time; the door opened and Roarke looked in.

"Tattoo and I have to make a quick trip to the fishing village," he told her. "We'll try not to be too long, all right?"

"Oh, that's okay…take all the time you want, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said brightly. "I'll be fine here all by myself."

Roarke gave her a faintly puzzled look, but nodded and accepted it. "Very well," he said and retreated, closing her door again. A fresh wave of guilt assaulted Leslie; despite his denying her the party, she had to admit he was pretty darned good about a lot of things: closing her door to give her privacy, allowing her the chance to use the phone to talk to her friends whenever he didn't need it, trusting her to drive any of the vehicles in his fleet, giving her real responsibilities in connection with the fantasies, instead of just go-fer duties that any toddler could do. It was hard for her to be upset with him for very long. He could, after all, have been a real martinet, making her life here miserable.

Yet she felt a certain loyalty to her friends, too. They were right; it _was_ her turn to throw their annual Christmas party. She couldn't bear to imagine what they'd think of her if she chickened out for fear of being caught making her plans. They were really looking forward to having a great time, dancing, chatting, eating, listening to their favorite music, exchanging presents, sleeping over…

Leslie bolted up straight in her chair and gaped at the corkboard in front of her. How was she going to get away with the sleepover? "Oh, Leslie, you total moron," she moaned, dropping her elbows on the desktop and holding her head in her hands. She had completely forgotten about that! What was she going to say to the girls now? There was just no way she could sneak the slumber party past Roarke.

She dashed downstairs and dialed the Tokita house, where to her enormous consternation, Toki answered. "Can I talk to Michiko?" she asked in a rush.

"She's doing homework. What do you want?" Toki replied rudely.

"None of your business," she retorted. "I just have to talk to Michiko."

"Huh," Toki snorted. "You snobs really oughta think about including some other people in your stupid Christmas parties for a change, you know that?"

"What makes you think we'd give you an invitation?"

"Who says I want one? I just thought you oughta think about it."

"Just get Michiko, will you?" Leslie demanded, exasperated.

"I will…" Toki's voice turned sly. "…if you promise to go someplace with me on Friday night. I'm thinkin' maybe the casino…"

Incensed, Leslie burst out, "How stupid are you, anyway? We're underage! And I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"You will if you don't want me blabbing to Roarke about your party down at the old opera house," said Toki smugly.

Speechless and horrified, Leslie stared at the phone receiver. He was just the sort to do it, too. The last thing she wanted was to go anywhere with Toki Tokita; and besides, if Myeko ever found out, she'd probably stop being Leslie's friend. But she just knew Toki would be more than thrilled to rat her out, and thus wouldn't be above blackmailing her to get her to spend a truly miserable evening with him.

Luckily, before she had to make a decision one way or another, she heard an indignant voice in the background. "Give me that!" Leslie heard a few scuffling sounds, then Michiko's voice came in more clearly. "Sorry about that, Leslie. I heard Toki talking to you—I'm sorry, but I knew it was you, you're the only one he treats like that."

"That figures," Leslie grumbled. "Well, anyway, I have a big problem." Eager to get off the subject of Toki, she rapidly explained the sleepover problem.

"Ooooh," Michiko groaned. "I didn't think of that either. Well…to tell you the truth, I don't see any way to pull that off. Maybe we'll just have to cancel the sleepover part. I mean, we don't _have_ to make it a slumber party."

"I guess not," Leslie mused, partly relieved, partly disappointed. "You don't think the other girls'll get mad at me about that, do you?"

"I don't see why they would. I mean, it _is_ the old opera house, and to tell you the truth, sleeping in that big a space, even with six of us there, could be kind of spooky."

Leslie laughed. "Yeah, that crossed my mind too. Besides, if we don't have the slumber party, we'll have a better chance of making this work."

"Right. Well, okay, you can tell the others tomorrow at school. Anything else?"

"No, I thought I'd go into the kitchen and see if there's anything in there I could make for the party. What time do you think it should start?"

"How about noon? We could have lunch and start it that way. So you could think about coming up with something for lunch too. I'm sure Mana'olana must have all sorts of terrific recipes you could work with. It's going to be fun, Leslie, don't worry."

"Sure, right…" Leslie managed to get off the phone, then trudged to the kitchen, plagued with a new worry. How could she possibly prepare snacks and drinks, and then provide lunch atop that—_and_ how would she get it all down to the opera house?

Mana'olana was just beginning to prepare the evening meal when Leslie came in, and watched her curiously now and then as Leslie opened cabinet doors, then stood and stared at their contents for some time before going on to the next. Finally the cook inquired, "Miss Leslie, what are you up to?"

Nerves fraying, Leslie whipped around, accidentally slamming a cabinet door shut. "Oh, geez…Mana'olana, you scared the crud out of me."

"I'm sorry, but you didn't answer my question," Mana'olana said pointedly.

"Am I doing something wrong by coming in here to look around?" Leslie countered.

The cook sighed gently, as if impatient to get a reply to her query. "No, Miss Leslie, but you're not in the habit of doing that. Which is why I asked."

"Oh," Leslie said, and let her gaze drift back to the cabinet, whose door she had reopened. "Well, uh…I was just thinking…if you were going to have…oh, say maybe a lunch party or something…what would you serve? Nothing fancy, just plain good food."

Mana'olana peered oddly at her, but to her relief went ahead and answered the question. "Oh, let's see now…if I wanted a real crowd-pleaser, I'd whip up some meatballs in sauce in a slow cooker, and have mini hot-dog buns to serve them in. Maybe some nachos on the side, dripping with cheese, and then something nice and healthy and simple like carrot sticks and cherry tomatoes. Does that answer your question?"

"It sounds good," remarked Leslie, whose stomach had begun to rumble as though in anticipation. "You've got recipes for that, of course."

"All I need to know, I've got in my head," the cook said cheerfully, bustling back to her work, while Leslie gaped at her in disbelief. "I've been cooking so many dishes for so many years, I eventually memorized it all."

"But you must've started out with some cookbooks or something," Leslie protested, hoping she didn't sound too desperate.

Mana'olana shrugged and glanced over her ample shoulder at the girl before reaching for a small cabinet over the stove's ventilation hood and flinging the door aside. She pulled down two cookbooks and extended them in Leslie's direction. "If you're so worried about whether my recipes are exact," she said stiffly, "then here's the insurance."

Leslie realized she'd hurt Mana'olana's feelings somehow, but she dared not explain for fear the cook would tell Roarke or Tattoo. "Thanks, Mana'olana." Without bothering to say anything else, she hurried out of the kitchen with the books. Safely back in her bedroom, she shoved aside the history textbook she had left open on the desk and fell into the chair, poring determinedly through the books in search of something easy.

She was still searching by Friday, frantically bookmarking recipes and trying to narrow them down to the three easiest ones; then she lay awake most of Friday night wondering how she could make Roarke and Tattoo believe she would rather spend her day in the kitchen than helping with the fantasies. It would be futile, of course; even she didn't believe it. She sighed deeply and rolled over in bed for the umpteenth time.

On Saturday she somehow managed to get away long enough to buy half a dozen boxes of snack cakes in assorted flavors, after Roarke handed her the allowance he gave her every Saturday morning for the week's various chores and errands. After some thought, she also bought an equal number of six-packs of soda, and as long as she had use of a rover, she took the items directly down to the opera house and left them tucked neatly under a table that stood against one wall. Late in the afternoon she found another opportunity to sneak down there, this time taking the bag of party decorations. When she got back, Tattoo gave her a funny look and started to ask a question, but was interrupted by Roarke, who told him to go to the luau clearing and make sure everything was ready.

Leslie had decided to make the meatballs Mana'olana had mentioned a few days before; she had done some on-the-sly reconnaissance in the kitchen on Thursday and seen that all the necessary ingredients were at hand. She waited till Tattoo had gone back to his cottage and Roarke had retired for the night—and then an extra hour just to be safe—then got out of bed, slipped downstairs and spent the next two hours making meatballs according to the recipe in Mana'olana's cookbook. By the time she had dumped the partially cooked meatballs and the sauce in the slow cooker and turned it on, it was close to three in the morning, and she was nearly asleep on her feet.

Unfortunately, she had to get up less than three hours later to beg the newly arrived Mana'olana not to tell Roarke and Tattoo about the meatballs. "It's a surprise," she said lamely when the cook asked her why. Sheepishly Leslie handed her the borrowed cookbooks. "I didn't mean to make you think your cooking was bad, I just…well, I've been trying not to tell anyone what I'm doing. I don't want them finding out accidentally." That was the truth, at least; it was a relief not to have to lie about everything.

"I don't know if Mr. Roarke eats meatballs like that, Miss Leslie," Mana'olana said gently, no doubt thinking she was letting Leslie down easy.

"Well, they're not really for him," Leslie said, trying to think fast and feeling frantic and empty-headed. "They're for…for me. I mean…"

Finally Mana'olana shook her head. "Never you mind, Miss Leslie," she said through a sigh. "I can see you're trying to keep some sort of secret, and you'd rather not talk about it. Just go on and meet Mr. Roarke and Mr. Tattoo for breakfast, before they decide to come in here and find out all about whatever it is you're up to."

"You're the best," Leslie said gratefully. "Thanks." She scuttled out of the kitchen and hurried back to her bedroom, hoping to sneak in perhaps a couple more hours of sleep before Roarke rousted her out of bed for the day.

Sunday passed mercifully without incident, and Leslie at last dared begin to let herself believe everything would come off smoothly. She visibly surprised Roarke by volunteering to sort through the mail and tape up for display all the new Christmas cards that had arrived over the week. Tattoo often heard from his family and Solange at this time of year, and Roarke got a surprising number of cards from former fantasizing guests; so there were more than enough cards to decorate the room with.

"You think you're gonna get one from somebody?" Tattoo asked her with a grin. "I thought your friends already sent you all their cards."

"Sometimes the cards from fantasizers have my name on them," Leslie said, feeling a little wistful.

Roarke chuckled. "Go ahead and do that, then, if you wish," he said. "We'll be making rounds; if you need anything, let us know when we return."

That was how Leslie was able to sneak out after about half an hour and buy the miniature hot-dog buns for her meatballs. Mana'olana had advised her to refrigerate the meatballs and sauce till they were needed, then take the slow cooker with her and put everything back in to reheat at the location where she intended to use them, "wherever that is," as she put it. Leslie, afraid this was a hint for more information, merely thanked the cook, added a compliment on that day's lunch for good measure, and made her escape. Then, feeling both guilt over her duplicity and fear that it would be exposed, she diligently spent the rest of the time in the study with the Christmas cards.

The following morning she saw the guests off with Roarke and Tattoo; then she kept a sharp ear on their conversation, awaiting her chance to get away to decorate the opera house for the party. "Since next Saturday is Christmas and we'll have no fantasies to grant," Roarke mused, "this week will be fairly slow. Tattoo, if you would, please, call a meeting of the hotel employees and let them know that I am expecting the annual shipment of new linens and bedspreads today, and they are to await their arrival before changing the beds in the rooms. I am expecting the packages to be delivered by noon, so at that hour I'd like you to return there and supervise the distribution of the old linens and spreads."

Tattoo nodded. "That'll take most of the day, I think," he said.

"Yes, I believe so. If you prefer, you may help yourself to anything you think you can use," Roarke told him. "Whatever is not claimed should be put aside so that we may offer them to the orphanage and whomever else may be interested, before giving away the remainder to charity."

"Got it, boss," Tattoo agreed.

"Leslie, I don't think I'll need you for anything today," Roarke said, "so you may go to see your friends, or whatever you wish. I myself need to begin putting together the Christmas party for our employees, so that will keep me occupied."

Thrilled, Leslie nodded, and just for good measure asked Roarke if she could borrow a rover for her use. He agreed, and she scuttled up to her room and gathered her bag of gifts, as well as the hot-dog buns, to put in the car. Aware that her guardian was in the study, she went to the kitchen via the porch door leading to the dining room and the stairs to the bell tower and the cellar, to keep him from seeing what else she was taking with her.

Mana'olana helped her bring the meatballs and the slow cooker out to the rover. "Now you be careful driving, Miss Leslie, or you're going to have one unholy mess," she warned. "And I know you'd hate to waste all that work you did."

"Don't worry, I'll be super-careful," Leslie promised. "Thanks for your help."

Thus armed, she reached the old opera house after about twenty minutes of unusually slow driving, and toted in her latest cargo, taking several trips to do it. Then she unpacked the disposable tablecloths and draped them over three tables before pouring the sauce and meatballs into the slow cooker, plugging the machine in and turning it on. While the meatballs were heating up, she arranged the other food around the slow cooker, set up paper plates, plastic cups and flatware, and napkins; then she placed her little Christmas tree on another table, plugged it in so the lights shone, and surrounded it with the gifts she had bought for her friends. Finally she dug out the crepe-paper streamers she had bought, extracted a roll of tape and a pair of scissors, and dragged a chair into the middle of the room, where she taped the end of one streamer roll to the bottom of the chandelier that hung from the ceiling before stepping down and eyeing one of the corners of the room.

She dragged her chair over there, then returned for the streamer roll and unspooled it, walking backwards and gently overturning the roll in her hands so the streamer would be twisted; then she climbed onto the chair and was trying to juggle the scissors, streamer roll and tape in her hands when the door opened and a gaggle of native girls poured inside. They all stopped short and gaped at the scenario. Leslie, for her part, gawked back.

"What're you doing here?" she finally asked, seeing their hands filled with all manner of decorations far more elaborate than her own, and a couple of them manning a small wheeled cart laden with shiny pots and Dutch ovens.

"The staff Christmas party's going to be held here, Miss Leslie," said one of the young women, staring at her in amazement. "You mean you didn't know?"

"N-no," Leslie said faintly, her heart sinking and her stomach boiling with horror. "It…I mean, is it gonna be right now?"

"In about four hours, Miss Leslie," another native girl said. "We're just here to decorate. Mr. Roarke sent us."

She groaned and let the streamer, scissors and tape fall to the floor. "Oh, _no…"_

The native girls looked at one another, then abandoned their paraphernalia near the door and clustered around her chair. "What were you doing?" one asked.

Leslie, having given up, decided the whole jig was up and reluctantly explained about the Christmas party she and her friends had. "So this is where I decided it would be. I don't get it," she said plaintively, looking for sympathy in the upturned faces. "The hotel manager told me this place was free both today and tomorrow."

The young women looked at one another. "Well, we don't know about that," one of them said finally, "but what Mr. Roarke doesn't know won't hurt him…right?" The others agreed, and they all beamed at Leslie. "We'll help you decorate for your party, and if you and your friends don't mind keeping it short, we'll have plenty of time to decorate for the staff party. Mr. Roarke won't be any the wiser."

Leslie gasped. "Really? Wow, you guys are fabulous! Listen, you can use all my decorations if you want, it'll save you some time."

So Leslie had substantial help putting up her streamers, and from the pay phone in the tiny lobby of the opera house, she called Michiko and explained that there was a slight change in plans, and could the girls come to the party now? Michiko agreed and promised to call their other friends, and a deeply relieved Leslie went back inside to check on the meatballs. Maybe it was going to work.

She was allowed to get away with this hope for another half hour, by which time her friends had arrived and reacted with delighted surprise at the party setup. They were eating and chatting energetically when out of nowhere, the door opened and Roarke and Tattoo came in, stopping short in amazement. All six girls instantly fell silent and gaped; Leslie's face drained of all color.

"What in the world is going on in here?" Roarke asked, staring at the minimally decorated space. "Where are the young women I sent down here to decorate?"

"It's our Christmas party, Mr. Roarke," Lauren said finally, when no one spoke up. Even Camille, usually so fearless, had held her tongue, obviously in awe of Roarke.

Recognition registered in Roarke's dark eyes and he focused on Leslie. "The very same Christmas party I told you would not be possible to hold?"

Miserably Leslie gave a few tiny nods; Tattoo looked sympathetic, but he knew better than to intercede, since it was plain that she had gone behind Roarke's back with her plans. The girls looked at one another; then Camille seemed to find her voice. "Leslie said you told her no, but…geez, Mr. Roarke, she had to come up with something. We always have a Christmas party, just the six of us, and it was her turn to do it."

"That's right," Myeko piped up, as if given courage by Camille's speech. "It's only fair, all the rest of us have done our turns in the past years. So it was Leslie's this time."

"And I'd probably have had no friends left at all if I hadn't done the fair thing," added Leslie, her voice small, thickening as she spoke. "I could understand you not wanting us to have the party in the main house, but I didn't see how you could mind if I held it someplace else. So I called the hotel manager and asked if this place was free, and she said it was."

"It was going to be a slumber party," Maureen added with a silly little grin, "but we knew that wouldn't work down here, so we just made it a regular little party."

"Leslie thought the opera house was free both today and tomorrow, all day," Michiko put in. "I mean, she even went and asked about it."

By now Roarke looked a little startled. "Oh?"

Tattoo, who till now had been taking in the exchange, suddenly grinned. "Oh, come on, boss, let them have their fun. It's only a small party—look, just the six of them. And Leslie went to all that trouble for fear her friends would desert her if she couldn't do what she thought was her fair share."

Hearing this from Tattoo as well as Leslie, her friends all turned red and looked at one another. "Well, we wouldn't have gone that far," Michiko said, looking indignant.

"Heck no," Maureen exclaimed. "If we'd known you were really that annoyed by her wanting to host our party, one of us would have stepped in for her."

Camille peered at Roarke oddly. "How come a little bitty party like this was such an inconvenience for you, anyway? I thought this was your slowest time of year—that's what Leslie's always told us."

Roarke looked positively broadsided by now. "Ladies," he said, clearly trying to regain some measure of equilibrium, "if it seemed to you that I was adamantly against Leslie's hosting your traditional Christmas party, then I apologize profoundly." He approached the table, glancing with interest over the assorted food, the little Christmas tree and the gifts that still sat around it. "I didn't realize this was such a small affair…"

"I told you there'd be only the six of us," Leslie broke in.

Roarke smiled. "For that I also apologize; I had a great deal on my mind that day, my child, and somehow that part slipped by me. I also didn't realize that it was so important to you. But did you truly think your friends would have terminated their friendships with you merely because I forbade you to host a party?"

Leslie hesitantly met the gazes of each of the other girls; Camille and Myeko both rolled their eyes, and Michiko, Maureen and Lauren smiled at her with gentle reproach. She shrugged sheepishly. "Well, I guess not, but I had this feeling they'd get mad at me, because a couple of them made a big deal out of it being the fair thing to do."

"Yes, apparently fairness is paramount," Roarke observed, making Camille blush vividly. He grinned at the sight and focused on Leslie again. "I may occasionally seem unreasonable, Leslie, but you need not always take my word as incontrovertible law. In this case, I would certainly have been flexible had you been thinking a bit more clearly when you initially requested my permission, and suggested alternative sites for the party."

"So you mean, if I'd thought about the opera house then, and asked you about it, you probably would've said yes?" Leslie asked, astonished.

"Of course," Roarke replied, looking almost as surprised as she was. A slow smile spread over his features. "It appears that you are the victim of a self-imposed communication gap, young lady."

Leslie made a face that evoked a chuckle from her guardian. "Okay…I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke. I guess I panicked…again. But what about now? When they came down here to decorate, I asked when the staff party started, and they said four hours. I figured we could just have a short party here, and that'd leave plenty of time to decorate for the big one."

Roarke looked around, for the first time noticing the streamers overhead, and grinned. "Far be it from me to stop you now. I should certainly hate to be seen as a Scrooge, only five days before Christmas."

The girls burst out laughing and Leslie hugged him. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke," she said. "That sure takes a load off my mind. Well…how about some meatballs?"

§ § § - December 4, 2006

Christian was laughing too when she finished. "Oh, Leslie, my Rose, you amaze me sometimes with those stories of yours," he chortled, shaking his head. "I love it."

She grinned, watching him test another bulb. "Now that I think about it, that was the last party we had together, just the six of us. But we still sent each other cards, which of course has continued to this day." She paused to study him as he snorted quietly to himself, put the original bulb back and tested the next one. "What about you?"

"Hm? What about me?" Christian murmured absently. Then he grinned broadly when the replacement bulb worked and the whole string lit up. "Aha! Success at last! Let's start getting these lights on the tree."

"Sure," she said with a sly little smile, "if you'll tell me something about an unusual Christmas for you. There must have been one that stands out in your memory."

Christian considered it for a while, carefully stretching out the first string of lights and handing her the end with the plug attached. "Oh, I don't know. I'll say this much: easily the worst Christmas of my life was the one immediately following Mother's death. My father canceled the royal Christmas ball that year, and I remember being livid with disgust when we heard objections from some of the continental nobility who had made a longtime habit of attending those balls. It wasn't as if they didn't realize Mother had died and we were still mourning. When the day itself came around, we were asked as always to make statements for the people, but none of us could muster up any Christmas cheer. All the cards we got that year were a combination of sympathy and Christmas cards."

Leslie nodded, thinking back to the previous month's astonishing meeting with the spirits of Christian's parents. _The ghosts of Christmas past, sort of,_ she thought, and smiled inwardly. She would always be glad she'd had the chance to meet them. "It sounds like the first Christmas I had after the fire," she said, "a little anyway. It was a complete loss. I had to spend it with the Brookses down the street, and by then Cindy Lou and I were so estranged that we didn't bother getting each other presents."

Christian cast her a sympathetic little smile and kissed her softly. "Well, my Rose, we've both known enough loss that I daresay we've earned these happy Christmases we're having now, with each other and our children." She smiled back at that, and he chucked her playfully under her chin and gestured at the tree. "Why don't we get started with this, hm? And if we're going to talk about holidays, it's just crossed my mind to ask you how you handled the rest of the year. I know about your habit of bidding the old year goodbye. But what of things like Valentine's Day, and Easter, and Mother's and Father's Day?"

Leslie laughed. "I didn't care too much about Valentine's Day, to tell the truth. I never had a boyfriend all through school, and since I wasn't the only one in that predicament, I didn't really think twice about it. Camille was seeing some guy during the last two years of high school, till they drifted apart in college after he met someone else; so she used to get mushy love notes and things like that. And Myeko would send Hachiro a huge, elaborate valentine every year, and never got anything back. Never fazed her, though." That got a laugh from Christian, and she giggled. "Maureen and Lauren and Michiko and I sometimes drew the interest of a boy here and there, but I was never sure what I should do about it, and the other girls just thought school was more important right then. Now at Easter, we'd get together and exchange little cards and sometimes candy, mostly chocolate. Myeko always got the lion's share of that—she claimed she always got terminal PMS and needed it."

Laughing again, Christian remarked, "That sounds like Myeko." He began looping the light string over the topmost tree branches. "You know, I have to wonder…I'm sure Mother's Day was torture for you, but what about Father's Day?"

"Before the fire, we ignored Father's Day," Leslie said, feeding him the string as he worked it onto the tree. "Michael just plain wasn't worth it. We found out the hard way one year when Kristy tried to give him a card and he just tore it up right in front of her. After that, even Mom didn't push us to give him anything." She caught Christian's wince and nodded once or twice. "But then the fire happened, and by the time the next Father's Day came around, I was here on the island. I was fourteen, it was summer vacation from school, and I spent weeks wondering what I should do—if anything."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § - June 1, 1979

"Last day of school…yippee!" blurted Camille Ichino on a sunny Friday morning. "Summer, here we come! Nothing to do for three whole months, unless we want to! Who's for the beach right after school gets out today?"

"I'll go," Myeko said cheerfully. "Although actually, we're gonna have a big vacation trip this month. Mom and Dad are taking all four of us to Honolulu for a week to see all the big tourist attractions."

"What week?" Michiko asked.

"The week of Father's Day," Myeko said. "We're leaving that morning. Hey, Leslie, aren't you gonna be helping Mr. Roarke with the fantasies that weekend like you always do? You oughta come down to the plane dock and see us off."

"Yeah, maybe I should," Leslie said, laughing, hoping her friends didn't notice its faintly halfhearted air. "But since we're doing that experiment with granting kids' fantasies right now, I might be too busy. Four fantasies a weekend…whew!"

"Then you really deserve a lazy summer," observed Lauren. "If you have to work that much every weekend, you should get to lie around all the time the rest of the week. Otherwise, you'll stress yourself out and be a total wreck by the time school starts again."

Camille nodded. "Yeah, and now that we're in ninth grade, we're going to a different school! Good old F.I. High. We'll finally start meeting kids from Coral Island." The Air Force base on Fantasy Island's nearest neighbor had an elementary and a junior high school, but by ninth grade all the base students had to attend Fantasy Island High School.

"You mean _boys_ from Coral Island," Michiko corrected her with a grin. "I'm not going to worry about that. I'm just going to really enjoy my summer. But you're right." She turned to Leslie. "Camille's got a point. You should tell Mr. Roarke that you work enough for him on the weekends, so he needs to let you be lazy and do nothing the rest of the time."

"I might," mumbled Leslie, who was still in awe of her guardian. She had been on the island less than four months, and while she was no longer unduly terrified of Roarke, neither did she feel completely at ease with him. It had occurred to her that they might be little more than roommates if it weren't for Tattoo, who seemed to bridge the gap. In view of that, she was less than certain about the upcoming Father's Day holiday. Her biological father was dead, and as far as she was concerned, deservedly so. But Roarke was only her guardian, not her father. Should she do anything for him on Father's Day?

She let the question percolate in the back of her head throughout her final day of eighth grade, which mostly consisted of turning in textbooks, collecting report cards, and wishing classmates a good summer. In fact it was just a half-day, so when Leslie came into the main house, it felt slightly strange to her to be home so early on a weekday.

Tattoo greeted her with, "Oh, good, you're just in time for lunch! The boss has some stuff to do, so he's not gonna be here. Want to eat with me?"

"Sure," Leslie agreed, seeing an opportunity and determined to seize it. "Be right back." She hurried upstairs long enough to change into shorts and a tank top, then came back down in the sandals she'd received the previous month for her birthday, accompanying Tattoo out to the veranda and taking her usual chair.

She waited till Mana'olana had returned to the kitchen before clearing her throat to get Tattoo's attention. "I was kind of wondering about something," she said, hoping she sounded casual.

Tattoo glanced at her. "About what?"

"Um…" Leslie hesitated for a moment, wondering whether Tattoo would tell her anything about his family should she ask. Shrugging mentally, she took the plunge. "Did you ever do anything special with your dad for Father's Day?"

The question made Tattoo pause in filling his plate, so that he could stare at her. "Well, I guess so," he mused, "at least when I was a kid. Trouble was, my brothers and sisters were always competing for attention from both my parents, so I guess you could say we all had to learn to share what little there was to go around. When we did something special for Mother's or Father's Day, all us kids did it together. It was more of a family thing than anything else. Why do you ask?"

Leslie drew in a deep breath and explained her problem; Tattoo chuckled. "It seems simple enough to me," he remarked. "The boss might not be your father, but he's raising you, right? That makes him the closest thing you have to a father. I think if you did something nice for him, he'd be very happy."

"What'd you used to do for your father?" Leslie asked.

"Mostly we just went on big picnics. One year we all went together to an amusement park. That's one of my favorite memories." Tattoo smiled, then visibly returned to the present moment. "But it doesn't have to be anything big. Just something small, he'll be happy with that. Not that we can do much…it's on a Sunday, and of course we'll be working all day. So you might want to keep that in mind."

"Yeah," Leslie murmured, turning this over. "Okay, thanks, Tattoo."

But she wasn't really satisfied with this response, and decided to ask her friends. Having secured Tattoo's permission to join her friends at the beach that afternoon, she took her frayed old duffel bag, packed with a towel, a bottle of sunscreen and a couple of cans of soda, to the beach where she and her friends usually gathered—one near the small Asian settlement where Camille, Myeko and Michiko lived. She was the last to get there, though not by much; Lauren was just spreading out a towel near the other three girls when Leslie arrived, and the girls greeted each other. Like Leslie, Michiko and Lauren were wearing shorts and tank tops; Camille and Myeko wore bathing suits, Camille's a one-piece and Myeko's a bikini.

"Ahhhh, now this is the life," Myeko announced, lying back on her towel, adjusting a pair of sunglasses over her eyes and folding her arms behind her head. "Paradise."

"If this is all we do all summer, we'll all look like somebody stuck us in the oven and forgot to take us out," remarked Michiko with a laugh.

"Except me," said Leslie, rolling her eyes. "I'll look like somebody buried me in a pit of crushed strawberries for six months." The girls laughed, and she relaxed, feeling more at ease. "Hey, you guys, I wanted to ask you something." When they all peered at her, Myeko over the tops of her sunglasses, she drew up her legs to hug her knees and asked straight out, "What do you guys do for your fathers on Father's Day?"

Her friends looked at one another, and Myeko shrugged against the towel, putting the glasses back in place. "Well, the trip to Hawaii is the big thing, I guess. Dad said it was something he always wanted to do, and my mother was born and raised in Hawaii, so for her it'll be a trip home. He sort of gave himself his own Father's Day present, I guess, and all of us benefit from it."

"I wish my dad would do that," Camille remarked. "Not since the quads got born, though. As far as my family's concerned, the whole universe revolves around those four little rodents. And you know Jennette's still sickly. I figure Father's Day in our house'll be just like any other day, except we might give Dad a break from quad-sitting."

"That'll probably seem like a vacation to him," Lauren joked, and her cousin nodded wryly. "Well, I don't know about us. You know my dad runs the marina, and it gets busy on weekends. He doesn't get the day off, so us kids just give him cards and little presents."

"Presents?" Leslie said blankly, a hollow feeling settling in her gut.

"Sure," said Lauren, nodding. "It doesn't have to be anything big. I mean, a lot of kids don't even think about it much and give their dads dumb stuff like ties and cuff links, which is what my stupid brother Adrian does. But I try to add to my father's collection of model sailboats, and Deborah's getting really good at haircutting, so Dad indulges her and lets her trim his hair. Stuff like that, you know."

"Oh," Leslie murmured, trying to keep her nervous mind from racing ahead of herself. "Michiko, what do you do?"

"About the same thing," Michiko said, gazing at her with interest. "I don't want to sound like I'm being mean, Leslie, but…it just seems to me, well—you used to have a father, so how come you don't know what you'd do on Father's Day?"

"Because my father was a jerk," Leslie said, bitterness creeping into her voice. "He never made it a secret that he hated me and my sisters. You know something? When Kristy was about four, she made a card for him and tried to give it to him. Right in front of her, he tore it up into tiny pieces." Her friends looked at one another in astonishment. "He said he hated being our father and wished we'd never been born, and we'd better never do another thing for him on Father's Day, or his birthday, or Christmas, or anything else." She fell silent, the memory playing through her mind. She had been just six, but she could still remember shouting at him, "You don't deserve it anyway!" and herding a crying Kristy away to the twins' room to comfort her.

"What a sick creep," Camille said, shaking her head. "What'd your mother say?"

"She saw it," Leslie said bleakly. "After that she never pushed us to do anything for him. It's just as well. I mean, we all loved Mom—we gave her the love my idiotic father didn't want—but that was one thing we'd never have done if she'd asked us to. Well, I sure wouldn't, and I don't think Kelly would either. Kristy wouldn't have done it because Kelly and I didn't." She heaved a sigh. "So anyway, that's why I don't know."

Her friends nodded, looking at one another and sitting in silence for a moment or two. Then Michiko offered, "Well, maybe you could do for Mr. Roarke what we do for our fathers. Get a card and some kind of present."

Leslie bit her lip. "Do you think he'd mind? I mean—I talked to Tattoo about it at lunch, and he said that just because Mr. Roarke's only my guardian doesn't mean I shouldn't do anything. But I don't know if I can give my guardian something on Father's Day when he isn't really my father."

"I guess I can understand that," Lauren observed. "Did he say anything else?"

"Well, he said since Mr. Roarke's raising me, that makes him the closest thing I have to a father now, even if he isn't. I guess maybe he's got a point…"

When Leslie let her voice trail off, Myeko asked, "If you think he's got a point, then why don't you just go ahead and do it?"

"Because I'm Mr. Roarke's ward," Leslie finally blurted out, avoiding their eyes for fear of condescending pity. "It's not like he _wanted_ me to come live here with him. He's doing it only because it was my mother's fantasy and he's fulfilling it. You see what I mean? He feels like he has to do it. I can't cope on my own, and somebody has to take care of me till I'm of age, and Mom put it in her will that it'd be him. So he's stuck with me. And he might not appreciate me trying to do something you're really just supposed to do for your father."

"Well, geez, you don't really think he's like that, do you?" Camille asked incredulously as Myeko struggled into a sitting position and shoved the sunglasses atop her head. "He could always have said he wasn't in a position to do it, and found somebody else."

"Yeah, c'mon, Leslie, give the man a little credit," Lauren said.

"Well, we don't really know that," Myeko broke in then, her face wearing a dubious look. "We don't live with him like Leslie does, you know. She'd know him better than any of us would. Maybe she's right about his attitude."

"Oh, seriously," groaned Michiko. "You can't really think Mr. Roarke's that mean and petty, can you? Will or not, Leslie, just because your mother appointed him your guardian, that doesn't mean he's absolutely obligated to do it, no matter what. I mean, suppose he was physically incapable of providing you a home? Or even worse, what if he'd died before your family did? The courts would have come up with something for you. And chances are, you'd have ended up in some cold and uncaring foster home somewhere. That's what happened to my mother, before she came to this island looking for information about her family, and met my father." Leslie blinked at her; it was the first she had learned at all about Michiko's mother. "You're friends with Tattoo, and if Mr. Roarke was really the small-minded sort of person you seem to be afraid he is, you wouldn't be as happy as you are. You'd be miserable, and probably a complete loner atop that. If you want to do something for him for Father's Day, Leslie, then for Pete's sake, just do it and stop worrying about it!"

"Well, there you go," said Lauren with a grin.

"Spitfire," Myeko teased Michiko, who rolled her eyes and made a swatting motion in her direction. "She sure convinced me. Look, Leslie, you've still got three weeks before you have to really worry about it. Why rack your brain now? We're out of school, we're on vacation, we're gonna live it up. So forget about it for now and just relax, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Leslie murmured, and sat staring out to sea while Myeko lay back once more and settled the sunglasses over her eyes. Camille and Lauren got up and headed for the ocean to wade; Michiko extracted a soda from her tote and popped the can open, and Leslie realized belatedly that she'd better put on some sunscreen before she turned as red as Santa's suit. But she was lost in thought as she smoothed the concoction on her skin; the scent of coconut, which always made her think of summer and the beach, twined in her head with her skittering thoughts about Roarke and Father's Day.

Getting a card would be no problem, she finally decided, but the present would be something else entirely. She still knew too little about her guardian to have any idea what he might like. Ties and cuff links were out. She had never seen Roarke wear cuff links, for one thing; and he undoubtedly had all the ties he ever needed. _Any color as long as it's black,_ she thought with a twinge of amusement. _How boring can you get?_ But even as she thought it, she knew it would seem strange to her to see Roarke dressed any other way.

Well, okay, so the old standbys weren't an option. What else did guys like, especially adult guys? Leslie let her eyes stray to Myeko, who appeared to be asleep, and Michiko, who had now cracked a book and was busily reading while she sipped her soda. Leslie stared at the volume, hope abruptly rearing up. _Hey, a book! But…what kind of books does Mr. Roarke read, anyway?_ She considered he'd prefer a classic of some kind, maybe a collection of Shakespeare plays, or that book about the crazy Spaniard with the sidekick who rode a donkey. _What was it—oh yeah,_ Don Quixote. _Tilting at windmills and all that. Come to think of it, that's what it feels like _I'm_ doing._ She sighed dejectedly and made a determined effort to shove the whole problem out of her mind.

She was so busy over the weekend that she had no time to think about it, not even at night when she collapsed into bed, almost too tired to breathe. But on Monday morning the whole thing came back again, and her mind refused to stay away from it, no matter what she was doing. Even she knew she was obsessing, but she had no willpower at all to keep from thinking about it.

Happily, Michiko's birthday party provided one distraction; on the 12th she would be fourteen, and the party was to be held at the beach the girls usually went to. Michiko had lately been very much into a popular series of light teen romances, so Leslie bought her three of those as a present. _I wish Mr. Roarke were so easy to buy for,_ she found herself thinking, scanning the bookshelves and then belatedly remembering to count her money. Her book idea had driven her to inspect the shelves in the study when he wasn't there to see her do it, and she had discovered that he already owned all the classics she'd ever heard of, along with some she hadn't. And he didn't seem inclined toward mysteries, spy thrillers or science fiction. Romance, of course, was absolutely out of the question; every male she had ever known scoffed at the very idea. Well, maybe Roarke didn't, but that didn't mean he went around reading romance novels. What about nonfiction? She ended up nixing that as well when she realized he most likely didn't need how-to books, and she didn't know what lay in his area of interest. Languages? Botany? Biographies? Oh, who knew?

_Okay, okay, scratch the books. _ Leslie left the bookshop and wandered aimlessly up the brick walk in the pedestrian shopping area, scouring her brain in search of some other idea. Well, he had sculptures, she'd noticed. _Hmm…sculptures, figurines, maybe crystal…_ She slipped into the first gift shop she came to that didn't cater to the tourist trade, and almost as quickly left. The prices of the sort of art and knickknacks that might interest her guardian were so expensive, she could have saved every cent she had for five years and still not been able to afford to buy one.

At last, a few days after Michiko's birthday party when she'd attempted another ultimately fruitless shopping trip, she was driven to consult Tattoo. "What kind of stuff is Mr. Roarke interested in?" she asked.

Tattoo stared at her blankly. "All sorts of things," he said. "Art, sculptures, rare books, lead crystal, fine furniture, top-notch wines…you name it."

As little as Leslie knew about such things, she nevertheless ascertained that the items Tattoo had named had one point in common: they were all light-years beyond what laughably passed for her budget. "Well, thanks," she mumbled and started to turn away.

"Just a minute." Tattoo grabbed her arm and stopped her cold, and she peered at him in surprise. "What's the matter with you lately? You're about as much fun as a fistfight. You always look like you're thinking about something else. Why don't you tell me about it?"

She heaved a tremendous sigh. "I'm trying to think of something nice to get Mr. Roarke for Father's Day," she confessed. "But he already owns all the books I thought he'd be interested in, and all that stuff you just mentioned…I couldn't afford any of that if I worked for him day and night for the next fifteen years. I just can't think of anything good to give him, and it's driving me crazy."

Tattoo regarded her with the sage, sphinxlike expression that sometimes spooked her a little, because it was so reminiscent of Roarke. "Why do you think you have to buy him something?" he asked. "Quit thinking with your piggy bank and use your head." With that he winked and strolled away.

Leslie gaped after him, completely flummoxed. _What in heck is he talking about?_ she thought in astonishment. _I_ have _been using my head—I've used it so much it hurts! _ But as she sifted Tattoo's words, particularly the phrase "piggy bank", she began to understand, and slowly an idea took shape in her mind. The next thing she knew, she was tearing up the steps to her room, knowing exactly what she was going to do.

§ § § - December 4, 2006

"So what _did_ you do?" Christian urged, attaching the last of the lights to the tree and reaching for the next string to plug the first one into. "Don't leave it hanging there."

"I wrote him a letter," Leslie said simply, smiling at her husband.

Christian froze and stared at her. "A letter?"

"Yup." Leslie grinned at him and nodded. "I just told him how much it meant to me that he was willing to take me in after the fire, and how privileged I felt being his ward and getting to take part in the fantasy-granting enterprise, even on the most basic level. I told him that I wanted to do the very best I could, both in school and in whatever duties he saw fit to assign me, because I felt that I needed to repay him for his generosity in letting me live with him. When I gave it to him that Sunday evening, he spent a good ten minutes reading every line, and then when he looked up at me, I could have sworn—then and now—there were tears in his eyes. At that point I'd never seen him even come close to crying, and for a minute it scared me. And then he smiled and hugged me really hard, without saying anything for a long time." She smiled softly with the memory. "I think that was the moment we really started growing closer to each other. And all because of that seemingly cryptic remark Tattoo made. Ever since that day I've remembered his exact words, just the way he said them. And I remember that when I start getting too antsy over buying a gift for someone."

Christian pushed the plug into its socket and came over to hug her. "That's beautiful, my Rose. I suspect I could have used Tattoo's advice myself over the years. Although I must admit, I don't think anyone but Mother would have appreciated it."

She giggled. "I would've appreciated it. That first Christmas after we met, when you included that note with your gift…I carried the note in my pocket for weeks. I'd take it out every so often and read it over and admire your handwriting. You're the only person I've ever known who could write straight lines on unlined paper." At his chuckle, she went on, "Anyway, it just felt so nice to have something you'd touched."

"Huh," Christian said, grinning. "Let me tell you something, my Rose, I had a terrible time trying to find something I thought you'd like. Oh, I know that when I mentioned I was sending it to you, in that e-mail from the castle the night of that year's royal ball, I sounded utterly casual. But the fact is that I was all over the country, nearly, looking for something I thought was appropriate for you."

"Oh, you weren't! Really?" Leslie exclaimed, impressed.

"Really," he assured her.

"So tell me about it," she urged him.

Christian rolled his eyes playfully and began to hook lights from the second string onto the tree. "It'll bore you silly."

"Everything you do fascinates me," Leslie insisted, lightly swatting him when he let out a skeptical laugh. "I'm serious, my love. Come on, tell me."

"All right, well enough, then, but I tell you, you'll be sorry. It first crossed my mind as early on as the beginning of November, I think, and by the time December rolled around, I was frantic. And I had no one to confide in—or so I thought…"


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § - December 2, 1996

Christian had exhausted every store in Sundborg without coming up with anything he felt would properly suit Leslie as a Christmas gift. In the beginning he'd really thought it would be easy; he'd had vague visions of finding a beautiful dress for her that she could save for the first time he presented her as his wife at a royal Christmas ball. He could just see her in shining white silk with some sort of glittery tulle overskirt and plenty of diamonds—the real thing, never mind those cheap rhinestones—lining the neckline and around the waist. But when he'd gone to Ellströms downtown to look into it, they had told him they would first need a professional designer sketch of his idea, and then they'd need the lady herself in order to take her measurements and be sure the dress fit exactly. That had forced him to abandon the idea; he might have been able to sketch the dress, but it was impossible to produce Leslie for the necessary fittings. And he had no intention of buying her something off the rack, no matter how attractive.

Much to the amazement of his employees, he was the first one out the door that Monday evening when closing time rolled around; and then he proceeded to puzzle them even more when he sat in his car for almost fifteen minutes, trying to think of someplace in the city he hadn't been to yet. When he realized that about all that was left were adult video stores and toy shops, he groaned in disgust and drove back home to his penthouse flat, where he was still trying to get used to having Marina there lounging around, after all those years of living alone.

"You look troubled," Marina remarked when she saw him come in the door.

"Not troubled so much as frustrated," Christian said absently, locking the door after him. "Don't worry about it, though, it's my problem."

"If you say so," was all Marina said, in a quiet murmur. He dismissed her from his mind and wandered into the kitchen, where he opened cabinet doors and looked inside without seeing what was there, in another world altogether.

"Why don't you order Chinese?" Marina suggested hopefully, out of the blue, from behind him. He started and turned to stare at her as if she had just dropped in from no-where at all, and she smiled at him. "You know I love Chinese."

He shrugged. "I suppose so. I don't feel much like cooking anyway." Ever since Marina had taken up residence in his spare bedroom, he'd been the one to do all the cooking; Marina had no knowledge of the skill whatsoever, which often made him wonder in irritation who'd cooked her meals all her life.

"Good," Marina said, clapping her hands happily. "I'll wait in there." She promptly made herself comfortable in the living room; Christian stared after her in disbelief, then shook his head and made a call to his favorite local Chinese takeout joint to have two full meals delivered to his flat. By now he knew what she liked as well as his own favorites, so he gave the order in a near monotone and hung up without a farewell. If only buying Leslie a gift was as simple as placing an order over the phone…

"Maybe that's the answer," he mused, but frowned even as he said the words. When he still didn't even know what to get her, how could he order it, over the phone or any other way? How he wished he could just ask her, without getting her suspicions up. He wanted the package to arrive as a complete surprise for her, which meant he was going to have to pull off a miracle tantamount to reading her mind. If only he'd had a chance to see her bedroom in Roarke's beautiful house! He might have gotten some ideas from the décor therein.

He was just desperate enough that when the delivery person arrived with their order, he collared the boy—no more than a teenager, he would realize only belatedly—and asked urgently, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

The boy gaped at him. "N-no, Your Highness," he stammered.

"Well, suppose you did. What would you get her for Christmas? Just toss out the first idea you think of."

Clearly as bewildered as one could possibly be, the boy floundered, mouth open, then blurted out, "Perfume?"

"Perfume," Christian mumbled, wondering with annoyance why he hadn't thought of that one yet. "Hmm, that could work. Well, all right, thank you for that. Here's something extra for your trouble." He handed the boy a fifty-_krona_ bill and shooed him out the door, then pushed it shut with one foot and toted an armful of cartons into the kitchen. Marina followed him in, amazement and amusement all over her face.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

"I said you don't need to worry about it," Christian reminded her, more absently than testily, though both emotions were plain in his tone. "Suppose you think about what you're planning to give your Giancarlo for Christmas."

"Oh, I already know. I have the present wrapped and ready to send him," Marina said breezily, prying open one of the cartons. "So you're trying to decide what to buy for Leslie."

Christian gave up and paused in opening another carton long enough to give her a look that spoke of strained tolerance. "Since you're so interested, maybe you'll tell me what your ideas are toward that end."

"All women love jewelry," Marina said in a bright voice, beaming eagerly at him. "I hope Giancarlo will be buying me some for Christmas. What I really want this year is a pearl necklace. Real pearls, not those ugly imitation things. And then perhaps a matching brooch or even a ring…"

Christian closed his eyes and groaned silently. He'd ruled out jewelry a long time ago, though he did regret not having had the chance to give Leslie an engagement ring before he'd returned home that summer and been blindsided with Arnulf's smug announcement that he was already married to this flighty little Italian girl. In view of the developments since then, though, he felt it might be wiser to let that issue ride for now. The _jordisk_ press was already buzzing ceaselessly about trouble in his marriage to Marina; and while he would have been more than glad to encourage them, he wanted to protect Leslie from the relentless media pressure, which would be more difficult if he happened to be seen out and about, picking out an engagement ring to send to her.

But perfume…hmm, there was something that, somehow, he'd failed to consider. He thought very carefully back over his memories of his time on Fantasy Island that summer, now unaware of Marina's happy chatter about jewelry and indeed having forgotten about it altogether. His recollections of holding Leslie close and breathing her in stirred not only his memory, but certain other parts of him, and he found it difficult to control a tsunami-sized surge of yearning for her. He wondered wistfully if she needed him this much.

Then Marina barked, "Christian!" He blinked and gaped at her blankly, and found her staring at him with a very strange look on her face. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm fine, why?" he asked.

"You had a certain look on your face," she said, as if repulsed.

Christian started to ask what, then checked himself, deciding he didn't want to know. "What do you want?"

"Have you even been listening to me? I thought you wanted my idea about what you should give Leslie for Christmas."

"You already told me, and then decided to go off on a tangent," Christian retorted, a little less patiently now. "And no, I don't think jewelry would be right."

"Well, what did that boy at the door tell you?" Marina asked.

He sighed quietly. "Perfume."

"Oh, that's fine if she wears it, but not all women do," she said. She eyed him with a pointed look for a moment, then turned her attention to her food.

_Oh, leave me to my daydream, you little fool,_ Christian thought, annoyed, and steered his mind back to the memories he'd been examining. Fortunately, his recollections were pretty vivid, and he soon realized that the scent he associated with Leslie was more that of some exotic floral soap than of any perfume. So that, too, was out. _Fifty kronor down the drain for an idea that got me nowhere. Oh well, maybe the kid can buy his mother something for Christmas._ Christian began eating by rote, still racking his brain but getting nowhere.

By the end of the week his employees had begun muttering among themselves over how distracted he was at work, and at lunchtime on Friday the sixth, he became gradually aware of furtive glances in his direction, accompanied by somewhat nervous whispers. Having decided he'd had enough, he abruptly speared Niklas Larsson with a fulminating glare. He timed it perfectly: he had caught Niklas in the middle of muttering something to Erland Vallelunga. "Am I allowed to be privy to the secret that's roaming around this office, or am I disqualified by virtue of being the boss?" he asked sarcastically.

Niklas reddened very satisfyingly, and Christian settled back in his chair, waiting for the response. Erland cleared his throat, and Christian shifted his regard to him. "I see you're in on it too," the prince remarked. "Care to enlighten me?"

"It's harmless, really, Your Highness," Erland said earnestly. "We've just noticed how preoccupied you've been all week, and we're wondering about it."

"Ahh, I see," Christian mused, in a mood to be indulgent. "And I presume all that frantic whispering I've been noticing you and everyone else doing in here must be out of concern for whatever you believe is troubling me."

"We were thinking maybe we could help," offered Karla Widgren. She was usually the most timid of Christian's employees, and he was surprised she'd spoken up.

Christian considered her words and raised a brow to himself with interest, thinking she might be right. "Hmm, well, all right then. Niklas, I know you're married. What do you usually buy your wife for Christmas?"

"Whatever she wants," Niklas immediately said, touching off a round of laughter that Christian joined in.

"That could be expensive," he teased.

"Oh, only sometimes," Niklas said dismissively, still a bit red-faced but grinning good-naturedly. "So that's the problem, Your Highness? You're trying to think of something to give Princess Marina for Christmas?"

Christian had never explained even to his employees about Leslie; only his family knew about her, and very little at that. In fact, he so rarely spoke of his home life to anyone he wasn't related to that hearing Marina referred to as a princess gave him an unpleasant little jolt. _Leslie should have that title, not Marina,_ he thought in a flash of rebellious indignation, before bringing his mind back to the issue at hand. As little as he liked the assumption, he let it stand, for Leslie's protection. "Do you have any ideas?" he queried, adroitly dodging the actual question. "Any of you? I'm afraid I'm at a complete loss."

"Little wonder, since you're so different from each other," said Elisabeth Nylén, one of his repair specialists. "What does she like?"

"Jewelry, it seems," Christian muttered, rolling his eyes. Snickers erupted from the men; Elisabeth and Karla looked at each other.

"Is that so bad, Your Highness?" ventured Karla. She was Christian's receptionist, though she was studying to become a repair technician; he had hired her away from a bad job situation a few years before, and though he sometimes found her deference to his royalty a little grating, he liked her very much and looked forward to adding her to his repair team when she finished her courses.

"Jewelry seems such a cliché," Christian complained, casting a half-pleading look around the gathered group. "Can't someone give me a more original idea?"

"Perfume?" Erland suggested, echoing the Chinese-takeout delivery boy.

"Shoes? My wife is a shoe freak," noted Jörgen Olofsson. Everyone laughed at the gargoyle face Christian made. _Thank fate Leslie seems to prefer going barefoot when she can!_ he found himself thinking, to his own surprise; he had always been amused by Leslie's propensity for leaving her footwear at home. "Okay, not shoes," Jörgen concluded, chuckling.

Christian grinned. "Keep them coming…maybe if we keep at it long enough, we'll get out of cliché territory."

"Something she collects," Joakim Bonde said then, making Christian sit up straight with interest before Joakim added, "What does Princess Marina collect?"

_Fate only knows,_ was Christian's knee-jerk response, but he kept it to himself. "That's a good question," he remarked. "In your experience, what do most women collect?"

"I collect vintage dolls," Karla volunteered bashfully.

Elisabeth looked around at her in surprise. "I collect baby dolls," she offered, and just like that they had their own conversation going while the men stared in amazement.

"Well, so much for that," commented Jörgen with a grin.

"Hmm, I'll say," murmured Christian, greatly amused. He was still wondering about whether Leslie collected anything, and wished he could ask her without generating a spate of questions he didn't want to answer. "Since they're off somewhere else, what about the rest of you? Joakim, do you know of anyone who collects anything?"

Joakim shrugged. "My daughter collects stuffed animals," he said. "Her room looks like a rainbow-colored zoo."

"I dated a girl who said she collected flowerpots," Erland put in. Christian snorted with mirth, setting off the other men. "Well, that's what she told me!"

"My son collects autographed soccer balls," Niklas said thoughtfully.

"Autographs of any sort," Jörgen said, and that electrified Christian. Just the previous month, in one of the many e-mails they had exchanged since reconciling from the rift caused by Arnulf's proxy marriage of Christian to Marina, Leslie had said that since her fourteenth birthday she had owned an autograph book given her by her father's late former assistant, Tattoo, and the book was so thick that even now it was only about two-thirds full. _There's no reason on earth I can't get her an autograph!_ Christian thought excitedly, tuning out any further conversation. _I know people, and those I don't know, I can arrange to meet. How perfect can you get?_ He smirked gleefully to himself, only then realizing that the buzz of discourse in the room had vanished. Coming back to the moment, Christian discovered that six pairs of eyes were fixed on him. "Are you all right, Your Highness?" Jörgen asked.

He gathered himself, remembered almost too late that they were supposedly discussing a present for Marina, and affected a weary sigh. "To tell you the truth, I don't know if I'll get her anything at all," he grumbled, which actually was very much the truth. "I expect I'll be reduced to giving her a Christmas greeting card and leaving it at that."

He saw the looks his employees exchanged, and Elisabeth nodded sympathetically. "I can understand that," she remarked. "After all, Your Highness, forgive me if I sound out of line, but it's fairly common knowledge that you and Princess Marina don't really…well, it's said that King Arnulf set up your marriage."

Christian gave her a long, startled stare, and she blushed deeply before he recovered enough to shift in his chair and admit, "Well, that much is true. I don't know where you learned that, but it's correct. I'd simply prefer that it not be bruited about as a regular topic of conversation in here, if you'd all be so kind."

They murmured willing assent, and Christian thanked them for their efforts and turned his attention back to his lunch and his e-mail, signaling the end of the chat. Now his mind was racing: who out there might be willing to provide him an autograph? He didn't see much trouble ahead for him in this regard; the only real hitch was that he couldn't wait for the royal Christmas ball to canvass prospects, since that was only four days before Christmas this year, and he didn't want to wait that long to get his gift in the mail to Leslie. So it would have to be someone who would be in the area between now and, say, the sixteenth or eighteenth at the very latest. Maybe Arnulf had appointments…maybe Kristina would be attending some party crammed with luminaries. If it came down to that, maybe he could even talk one of his nieces or nephews into attending a rock concert with him.

Deciding it was something of an emergency, he drove to the castle after work and, for lack of a better place to find privacy, holed up in his childhood room after rounding up his nieces and nephews. For a wonder, all seven of them were there, even Gerhard, who was currently busy finishing his master's degree in civil engineering. "So tell me," he said, looking them over, "does any of you know anyone famous?"

They looked at one another in surprise; then Rudolf smirked and pointed out, "We know ourselves." His brother and cousins laughed; Christian rolled his eyes and gave him a playful whack on the arm.

"Excluding us," he said, tossing a raised eyebrow in Rudolf's direction and getting only another unrepentant grin for his pains. "I know we meet a lot of famous people in our assorted comings and goings around the country. I don't care what they do that makes them famous; I just want to know if any if you has regular contact with someone like that."

Gerhard, the oldest of the bunch at 25 and single for the last four years since breaking up with the girlfriend he'd been seeing the year of Ulf's thirtieth-anniversary jubilee, shook his head and shrugged. "I'm really the only one," he said. "None of my classes contain anyone known for anything in particular. And with my studying, I don't get out much, of course."

"Right," Christian conceded. "Well, what of the rest of you?"

Anna-Kristina and Gabriella looked at each other. "We're scheduled for Christmas parties all month long," Gabriella finally admitted, as if reluctant to say so. "I suppose we might see famous people there."

"Why are you asking, Uncle Christian?" Margareta finally inquired bluntly.

He sighed heavily; they knew about Leslie, at least to some extent, and though he had vaguely hoped to get away without explaining his motives, he wasn't surprised that they wanted to know. "I'm looking for a Christmas gift," he said.

"For Marina?" queried Roald, sixteen, typical in that his world revolved primarily around his own interests and activities, and mostly unaware of any strife in Christian's life.

"No," Christian said, rolling his eyes in a telling manner that caused his nieces and nephews to exchange glances again. "Marina's already gotten a gift for that boyfriend of hers, and I doubt she'll bother getting me anything. Not that I'm interested. We may exchange cards, but that's all. This is for someone else."

"For your Leslie!" Anna-Kristina blurted in delight. Having been there to witness her father's bombshell that he'd married Christian to Marina on that fateful July day, she knew more about Leslie than her sisters or cousins did. "She collects autographs?"

Christian smiled. "Yes, she mentioned something to me in an e-mail about having had an autograph book since she was fourteen years old. I thought it would be nice to give her the signature of someone she hasn't met yet."

"If she's had an autograph book since she was fourteen," Margareta remarked, "you might have a hard time getting a signature she doesn't already have."

"Well, I'll take that chance," Christian said with a half-grin, and she grinned back. "So then…any ideas, anyone?"

"Give her yours," bantered Cecilia with a giggle. The boys and Margareta booed her, and Gabriella snorted.

But Anna-Kristina giggled along with her cousin. "That could be the one she'd want the most," she agreed. Both girls chortled delightedly.

"Perhaps," Christian said, the eyebrow rising again almost as if in reflex, "but she'll have that anyway when I sign my Christmas greeting to her. Try again."

"Maybe if you could wait till the Christmas ball, you could get a whole bunch of autographs," Gabriella mused. "We get so much nobility there, and a lot of deposed royals, and sometimes even ruling royals."

"Royalty," said Rudolf, squinting at her. "The Arcolosian royals are always here for our balls. She might like King Androno's autograph."

That made Christian laugh. "I wouldn't bet on that. I'm given to understand that some years back, Prince Errico tried to force her into marrying him, and she was nowhere near ready for remarriage at the time and soundly rejected him. Perhaps we'd better look elsewhere for sources of autographs—and besides, the ball is too close to Christmas, and I want the package to get to her in time."

His nieces and nephews nodded and set themselves back to thinking. Then Roald lit up. "How about getting her Astrid Franzén's autograph?" he offered. "You know her."

Christian rocked back and exploded with laughter. "Astrid Franzén!" he exclaimed, shaking his head in merriment. "Are you still hung up on her?"

"She was supposed to start dating me this year," Roald kidded, grinning. Christian's laughter intensified at the memory, and Roald's grin got bigger. "Seriously, Uncle Christian, I still go to her concerts, and I usually go backstage and we talk. I've gotten her to autograph all her albums that I have. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

"Perhaps not," said Christian, still chortling, "but you're conveniently overlooking a few things. First of all, Astrid Franzén is an unknown outside Europe. Second, I have a history with her, which I might have to explain in the course of telling Leslie who Astrid is, and Leslie might not appreciate the nature of my past with her, no matter how innocent. And even if Leslie _had_ heard of Astrid, I'm sure Astrid's brand of music wouldn't be in Leslie's taste. However, I thank you for the attempt…and the laugh. I needed one." That set off his nieces and nephews, and he raked his hair back from his forehead, still chuckling a little. "All right, any other ideas?"

"Well, if we're going to suggest music stars, find someone internationally known and get their autograph," said Gerhard.

"But how is he supposed to do that?" Cecilia pointed out. "Probably we're the only people in Lilla Jordsö that anyone outside Europe has ever heard of."

"Maybe so, but he doesn't have to confine himself to _jordiskor."_ Gerhard peered at his uncle. "You know, maybe you could take a little time off work and go to some of those parties that Stina and Briella are supposed to go to."

The face Christian made touched off more laughter in the young people, but Cecilia persisted. "It's almost the only way you can do it, Uncle Christian."

"Not necessarily," Gabriella admitted. "They're usually local parties. That puts us back to the problem of people who aren't known outside our borders."

"Too bad you couldn't get Jan-Martin Asplundh's autograph," Rudolf commented.

"I wouldn't mind that one for myself," Christian said, "but I've never met him, and he's reputed to be such a hermit that I have a feeling even a royal summons wouldn't get him out of his lair. I don't think he's known outside Lilla Jordsö either."

"Who does _she_ like?" Margareta asked. "If you know that, you could go for autographs from those people."

Christian drummed his fingers on his knee, thinking, while the others watched; then he frowned. "Well, I found out somewhere along the way that she likes _King's Castle_—remember that television series we used to watch, that was imported from the US? I think she said it's her favorite show. The trouble with that is that the actors have all either died or disappeared from public view, so that's no good."

"They have?" asked Anna-Kristina in dismay. "That's terrible."

"Wait a minute," Rudolf said suddenly. "Aunt Kristina probably knows who's going to be at all those parties she and Uncle Arnulf and Stina and Briella are going to. Think you could wait here while we ask?"

"Who's 'we'?" Christian asked.

Rudolf tapped Gabriella's shoulder. "Come on, cousin, this is where we go talk to your mother. If anyone in this family knows what the celebrities are doing, she's the one." Gabriella shrugged agreement, and the two of them jumped up and left the room.

Gerhard laughed. "Yeah, he's right, Aunt Kristina would know better than anyone else about the doings of the local gossip fodder. Ever since I can remember, she's read the _Society Happenings_ section of the Sunday paper."

"Farther back than that," Christian recalled with a grin. "Just about ever since she got married to Arnulf. I'd swear she really reads it to see whether her name is in it on a given week." Gerhard laughed.

"Why is Aunt Kristina like that?" Cecilia asked.

Anna-Kristina made a face, but Margareta was matter-of-fact. "Because she grew up in a small town and had a boring life as a child. Marrying Pappa elevated her into the sort of social circle she loved to keep track of, and she never lost her love of that even after she became part of it. Well, nobody can ever say Mamma isn't social."

"She's social enough for any four of the rest of us, and even enough to make up for Uncle Christian," Gerhard put in slyly. Christian eyed him, making them all laugh again.

"I have my reasons," Christian told him quietly, and they looked at one another. Gerhard nodded understanding. "Well, let's hope Kristina knows the score, or I'll be back haunting all the stores in Sundborg. Maybe around the country."

"Have you already?" Cecilia asked.

Christian grunted and said sourly, "I've spent my weekends driving to Dalslund, Birka and any other municipality in the country bigger than a fishing hamlet in the hope of finding just the right gift for Leslie, and come up with nothing in every case. Fate help me, but I just don't know enough about her, and I don't dare ask, or she'll want to know why."

"Is that so bad?" asked Roald.

"This is supposed to be a complete surprise," Christian explained. "I don't expect her to send me anything, and she may not be expecting anything from me, so I want to try to make her Christmas a little brighter."

"That's sweet, Uncle Christian," Anna-Kristina said dreamily. "I hope someday I fall in love with someone like that. Your Leslie's a lucky lady."

"She made me the lucky one," said Christian softly, unable to keep from smiling at the memories he still cherished of their precious few days together in July. Gerhard and Anna-Kristina looked at each other in surprise; and just then the mood was splattered wide open by Rudolf and Gabriella returning, each carrying a piece of paper.

"She knew, all right," Gabriella said gleefully, handing Christian her paper. "Here's a list of some of the people she expects to see at this month's Christmas parties."

"And here are some more," said Rudolf, pushing another paper into Christian's hands. "That's quite a list, eh, Uncle Christian? She even outdid my expectations."

Christian blinked at the number of names on the two lists. "Well, I guess that's enough even for me to choose from."

"You should pick one or two now and let us know which they are," Gabriella suggested. "Then we can tell you what party they'll be at, so you can arrange to go."

Christian sat up, sputtering. "You mean—I have to attend one of those fate-be-cursed showoff gatherings? Tell me why you or Stina can't get the signatures for me!"

"Is she worth it, Uncle Christian?" Cecilia asked a little slyly. "If you're really in love with this lady, you'll do anything for her. Anything at all."

"That's right, Uncle Christian," Anna-Kristina agreed, her eyes gleaming with glee.

Christian closed his eyes and groaned. "The lot of you will be the death of me yet," he predicted, to a collection of answering snickers. "All right, all right…" He surveyed the lists of names, chose three who he knew were famous beyond Europe, and pointed them out. One was on Rudolf's list and the others were on Gabriella's. "Find out which damned parties these people will be attending, and let me know so I can make arrangements."

"Let's see," Gabriella said and squinted at the two names Christian had pointed out on her list. "Pia Lyngman, the writer? And Hjalmar Amundsson, the classical guitarist?"

"Interesting choices," Rudolf said. "And mine has the name of that crazy Swedish comedian Lars Andersson. Would she have heard of him?"

"Yes," Christian said, "but probably not in his current profession. He used to be with an eighties pop group called Swedenstar—the one that launched Elin Kristel Granath's career. Probably out of the three, she'd know him best."

"Then there you go," said Gabriella with a grin. "We'll look forward to seeing you at those parties, Uncle Christian."

"Not unless you get back to me with the dates," he shot back, and his nieces and nephews snickered again. He got up and playfully swiped a hand over Roald's hair. "Behave, the lot of you, or _Julanissa_ will overlook the castle, just like she did last year." Laughing at the boos he got in response, Christian took his leave.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § - December 10, 1996

On the tenth of December he got a phone call at work from Anna-Kristina. _"Hallå då,_ Uncle Christian. Just wanted to give you those party dates. It turns out that Lars Andersson and Hjalmar Amundsson will be at the same one—it's a little coming-out fete for Annegretel Ekeblad. And—"

"Coming out?" Christian echoed blankly. "What does that mean?" He had visions of Annegretel Ekeblad, whom he knew of as the teenaged daughter of a wealthy Sundborg stockbroker who handled many famous people's accounts, announcing she was homosexual for the benefit of her party guests.

"Into society, Uncle Christian," Anna-Kristina said patiently. "She went to school with Cecilia. She's eighteen now and this is her big debut."

"Oh," Christian grumbled, disappointed. He'd have been much more impressed if his initial idea had been the correct one. "So when is that one?"

"Friday night," his niece told him, and he pulled up the electronic calendar on his computer and noted the event. "It starts at six, but you can be fashionably late, because you're royalty and the most popular one of us. And then as for Pia Lyngman, she'll be at a party on the eighteenth. It's just a little Christmas party at the Thornblad compound." This family was the owner of the factory that turned out the official _jordisk_ pastry, the _jordsklocka_, and had been making excellent money from it for decades.

"Make sure you bring a container so you can pack home a few dozen _jordsklockor_ in it," Christian twitted her, and grinned at the snort he heard on the other end. "What time does that one start?"

"Seven. So you don't have to go there straight from work," Anna-Kristina said. "It'll be so good to see you there. Oh, I'd better go, Pappa's looking for me. See you later!"

And so on Friday, December 14, Prince Christian of Lilla Jordsö met his sister-in-law, Queen Kristina, and her two daughters, Princesses Anna-Kristina and Gabriella, as well as his brother Prince Carl Johan, sisters-in-law Princess Amalia and Princess Anna-Laura, and her daughter Princess Cecilia at the castle to attend the first of two parties. The women were wearing glittery evening gowns in some combination of gold, red, green and silver; at Carl Johan's advice, Christian had donned his white royal dress uniform and added the accessories that usually were worn only at the most formal of royal functions: a gold shoulder-to-waist sash edged in red, which was repeated around the tunic where a belt would be, and gold epaulets on the shoulders. Carl Johan was dressed identically, which made him feel a little less ostentatious.

"We'd better be sure we know where the Christmas tree is when we walk in," Christian observed, deadpan.

"Why?" Cecilia took the bait.

"So we can take our places among the ornaments, of course," he riposted, and smirked at the dirty looks Kristina, his sister and his nieces gave him. Fortunately, Carl Johan and Amalia had senses of humor that more closely resembled his own; but while he was glad for their chuckled appreciation of his quip, he would have made the remark no matter how much disapproval he got from his relatives.

They all enjoyed Hjalmar Amundsson's performance; he played classical folk music from all the Scandinavian countries, though he himself was _jordisk_ and therefore put a little more emphasis on native music. After a break for refreshments, Lars Andersson took the stage and launched right into his somewhat frenetic routine, beginning with the requisite remarks about how he was enjoying his little vacation in Lilla Jordsö and moving into some gentle jokes about the country and the culture. But he had a set routine that was popular with the younger generation who could remember him only, or primarily, as a comic rather than the musician he had started out as; and before long he was in his element, telling all sorts of jokes, mostly at the expense of the Norwegians. "This is humor?" Kristina asked at one point, looking bewildered.

"That's his brand of it, I think," Christian enlightened her. "You know how the Norwegians and Swedes are always telling jokes on each other."

"Be glad it's not us," Amalia said. "I think his humor's slightly abrasive."

"That's just his personality talking," Carl Johan said, shrugging. But he eyed his younger brother curiously under a roar of laughter and asked, "Are you so sure you want to get your Leslie that man's autograph?"

"She knows him," Christian said helplessly. "Or at least she knows who he is. Don't plant doubts in my mind, _äldrebror_. I've had so much trouble trying to think of a present for Leslie, this has turned out to be my last resort. I need to do this before it's too late."

"Well enough," Carl Johan said with another shrug and settled back in his seat. Christian endured the rest of the comedian's spiel and applauded politely for a moment or two when he was done; then he prodded his brother in the side as the audience dispersed and began to mingle.

"Come with me," he said. "I know you'd like to meet Amundsson at least."

"You have me there," Carl Johan admitted good-naturedly. "Amalia, would you care to come along?"

Hjalmar Amundsson, having never before been presented to his country's royal family, was delighted and thrilled to meet them, and more than willing to sign the autograph Christian requested, without the slightest question. Andersson, however, seemed to be used to running in the circles of society's highest stratum, and trapped the surprised and restless prince in a boisterous, mostly one-sided conversation before at last scribbling his signature on the notepad Christian presented to him and clapping him on the shoulder. "It was really good to meet you, Your Highness," he said, and then peered at him with what Christian considered to be belated concern. "I hope you didn't mind my jokes about Lilla Jordsö."

To his own amused surprise, which he carefully kept hidden, Christian realized he'd forgotten what they were. "No, not at all," he said smoothly. "Well, thank you for the autograph, and it was good to meet you."

"My honor, Your Highness," Andersson said and bowed, as if only just now realizing there was protocol to be observed. "Thank you for being here tonight." Christian only smiled in reply, made an excuse, and then plotted a beeline for the door.

Amalia saw him making his break for it. "Leaving so soon?" she teased.

"Need you ask?" he retorted dryly, and she laughed. "Well, don't tell Kristina and the girls, please—at least not till I'm safely away in the limo." His sister-in-law laughed again and promised, and he succeeded in slipping away, relaxing only when the car was moving along the streets on its way back to the castle, where he'd left his car. He fished the two little slips of paper out of his wallet and examined them in the overhead light, blowing out a small sigh of relief. _Two down, one to go. Well, the worst is out of the way; I don't see how the Thornblad party can possibly be as insane as that one._

The following Tuesday, he checked with Kristina, who told him it was a much more formal party this time around, and he should wear a tuxedo. "Really, Christian, you should know these things in advance," she scolded.

"You know me better than that, Kristina," he chided her, though with a smile. "You should probably count your lucky stars that I've even consented to go to these things."

"Probably so," she agreed, relenting. She was well aware that Christian wasn't speaking to Arnulf and hadn't in weeks now, and in all honesty was fully in his corner. "If you like, you can just go directly to the Thornblad compound yourself, so that you don't have to rely on castle transportation to get back when you want to leave."

"Excellent idea, thanks," he said, and proceeded to take her advice.

A valet took his car to be parked, and the Thornblad butler escorted him inside and formally announced his presence. "His Royal Highness, Prince Christian," the man droned.

All eyes turned to him, many of them widening with amazement, and inwardly he smiled wryly. He had once claimed he wasn't an actor, but he was very good at hiding his true emotions, and no one suspected what he was really thinking as he shook hands and gave everyone the same professional, paste-on smile. Some might have noticed the lack of any real warmth in it, but if they commented, they didn't do so to his face. But he could no longer muster up the will to even pretend he was glad to be at these useless functions, not in the wake of what Arnulf had done to him and the perpetual hollow ache of missing Leslie that rode within him all the time.

Then said ache was sharpened considerably when he caught sight of an all-too-familiar face across the room. _Damn Briella and Rudolf for not telling me she was going to be here!_ It was Karin Grimsby, whom he had dated only four years before. _Cheer up, prince,_ he suggested sourly to himself. _It could be worse—you might have run into Ingela Vikslund here, after all!_ Before he could move on, though, Karin turned around and spotted him, and lit up like a searchlight when she recognized him. "Hello, Your Highness!" she exclaimed, curtsying to him.

Christian managed to maintain his smile. "Hello, Karin," he said quietly. He liked Karin just fine, but only as a friend; he thought he could see the glint of something more in her eyes, and decided on the spur of the moment to confide in her if it became necessary, in order to set her straight. "It's good to see you again. How have you been?"

"Very well, thank you," she said. "I'm glad to see you. I hope all is well with you?"

He half-shrugged. "Could be better," he murmured. He glanced around, feeling a little desperate, and finally went straight to the heart of his reason for being here. "Tell me, do you see Pia Lyngman around here anywhere?"

Karin's eyes lost their sparkle, and Christian felt sorry for her, but had no wish to encourage her in any way. "She's talking with some other people across the room," Karin said, polite but audibly subdued. "I didn't know you knew her."

"I don't," Christian said. "I just hoped to get her autograph."

"You did?" Karin said, astonished. "Th-that's all?"

Surprised, he grinned at her despite himself. "That's all. Why do you ask?"

She reddened. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I just thought…" Karin looked away and shook her head. "I'm only being foolish."

Relenting, Christian reached out and touched her shoulder. "Tell you what, Karin. If you'll do me the favor of helping me get Pia Lyngman's autograph, I'll give you any two dances on your dance card. How does that sound?"

Karin laughed suddenly. "Well, I have to admit, Your Highness, I don't know her either, but I'll do what I can to help. Just follow me."

It turned out that Karin knew one of the people the writer was talking with, and was able to horn into the conversation. Then her companions recognized Christian and bowed or curtsied to him. Pia Lyngman looked astounded and exclaimed, "No one mentioned you would be here, Your Highness. This is a great honor for me."

Christian chuckled. "As a matter of fact, I want to ask you a favor. Would you mind very much giving me your autograph?"

"N-not at all," stammered the writer, and wrote her name on the notepad Christian produced. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Your Highness."

"I'm very appreciative, thank you, Miss Lyngman," Christian replied, smiling. "I can remember reading some of your books to my niece when she was small, and she loved them."

"Oh, thank you, Your Highness." Pia Lyngman blushed and fluttered, and Christian almost laughed at the poor woman's flustered mien. "This will certainly be something to tell my family about. I'm so glad I was able to meet you. Is your wife with you?"

At the question, Karin turned to him, and Christian felt jolted again. Marina just didn't fit the role Arnulf had assigned her in his life. "Uh, no…no, she's visiting my nieces at the moment. They're good friends," he hedged. "I just came to…well, to get your autograph."

"Oh, fate have mercy," Pia Lyngman gasped and stared at him. "Truly?"

_What a ridiculous conversation,_ Christian thought, feeling absurd. "Truly. I thank you for that, and I hope your Christmas is a lovely one."

Fortunately, she took this as the gentle dismissal it was. "Merry Christmas to you too, Your Highness. And thank you again!"

Christian tossed her a last smile and drifted away into the milling crowd, with Karin at his side as though magnetized. He met her question-filled gaze, and the second he did, she pounced. "You really came here just for that autograph?"

Christian sighed, amused. "Karin, please, if I tell you what the story is, can you keep it secret?" She nodded eagerly, and he smiled. "The autograph is a Christmas gift, and I want it to be a complete surprise. This was the only way I could get it in time."

"For Princess Marina?" Karin asked skeptically. "If the press is to be believed, you and she don't care for each other enough to bother with Christmas gifts." Belatedly, at his wide-eyed stare, she tacked on, "Your Highness."

Again he relented; he supposed he must have a soft spot for her after all. "All right. No, it's not for Marina. It's for…someone else. Someone very special to me."

Karin studied him, and he noticed again that the shine had left her eyes. "I see."

He lightly rested a hand between her shoulder blades and guided her over to a somewhat secluded corner. "Karin, I know we had some good times a few years ago, but I'm afraid I don't feel anything more for you than friendship. I do appreciate your tact and your manners. Now I need to ask for your understanding when I tell you that I am in fact in love with a very special woman, someone I can't make a life with just now because of my brother and his machinations. The press is right when they speculate, but I won't talk openly to them—partly because of Arnulf, but mostly because I want to protect her. I don't want her being excoriated in the world media as 'the other woman' in my life. As far as I'm concerned, she's not the 'other' woman, she's the only woman." He studied her intently. "I'm telling you this only because I know you well enough that I believe I can trust you not to sell this to the first reporter you see. Can I?"

Karin seemed to be searching his face, and after a moment she nodded a little. "Yes, you can, Your Highness. Well…whoever she is, I just hope she's worthy of you."

That made him smile. "Oh, she is. I only wish I were as worthy of her. At any rate, thank you, Karin, for everything."

"You're welcome," she said and cleared her throat. "I'll cover for you if you'd like to leave now."

"Leave?" he echoed.

For the first time she cracked a smile. "I know you hate parties. You always have."

Christian laughed softly. "You still know me pretty well after all this time, then? As a matter of fact, it's tempting, but a deal's a deal. I promised you two dances for your help, and I intend to keep my end of the bargain. So come on, let's join those folks out there who are enjoying the music."

He put in the promised two dances with Karin, and even enjoyed them, before taking her up on her offer to "cover for him" and slipping out mostly unnoticed. Neither the butler nor the valet asked any questions of him; it wasn't their place, no matter how curious they might be. They were too professional to be that nosy, and he was grateful for it as he got into his car and headed for home.

Once he got there, he set about packaging up the three autographs for Leslie, and as he was addressing the padded envelope he planned to mail them in, he paused a moment. He had planned to include a card, but somehow that seemed too generic now. Rummaging through a drawer of his computer desk, he finally came up with some Enstads Datoservice letterhead, surveyed it and made a face, and decided it would have to do. He found a pen and began to write.

_My darling Leslie Rose, I hope you'll like the enclosed gifts. They're not much, but I went to a certain amount of trouble to get them—perhaps if you're curious, I'll tell you sometime. It's hard to believe it will be Christmas soon; it doesn't feel much like Christmas, any more than it did last year when my father died and my despicable brother took the throne. It would seem much more like Christmas if only I could be with you. You've shown me what it's really like to be in love, and I feel as if I could fly, as long as you're there to encourage me. Keep on being your sweet self, and never forget I love you, with everything in me. Merry Christmas, or as we say here in Lilla Jordsö,_ God Jula. _With all my love, Christian._

He started to fold the note, then hesitated, spying the colored pencils that he used in his design work, and grinned to himself. _Why not?_ Swiftly he sketched a green pine tree, dotted it with a number of small red spirals, and then plucked out a yellow pencil and drew a little star on the top, complete with cartoonish rays of light emanating from it. He printed his initials as small as he could manage under the tree's trunk, then put the pencils away, folded the note and slid it into the envelope. For the first time in several months, he felt lighthearted.

§ § § - December 4, 2006

"You did great," Leslie told him, grinning. "I didn't have those three autographs before, and I'd even heard of two of them. I remember reading some of Pia Lyngman's books as a kid, before I was old enough to really know anything about Lilla Jordsö." She chuckled, then met his amused gaze and added softly, "But I _loved_ the note. I still have it even now."

"_I ödets namn! _ You do not!" Christian exclaimed and burst out laughing. "It was just a silly note, Leslie…I can't believe you kept it!"

"Hey—it was your words, your handwriting, and that cute little Christmas tree you drew," she said, sliding her arms around his waist. "It meant so much to me that you went to all that trouble, and then gave me the note instead of just a card. Of course," she added with a grin, "I didn't realize you had to go through the torture of parties just to get them for me. If I'd known that, I'd have appreciated it that much more."

Christian chuckled. "Particularly putting up with Lars Andersson's crazy personality and Karin Grimsby's wishful thinking. She knew I was married, but not happily, so I guess that counted in her mind as my being free. I think she was devastated when she discovered I was in love with you. I always sensed that her feelings for me were stronger than mine for her, but the fact remains that whatever we had between us, it never really caught fire on my part." He shrugged. "For years I thought something was wrong with me, especially after I ended my relationship with Karin. I honestly thought something in me was deficient."

"Not from where I'm standing," Leslie said, smoothing his hair. "You said at that press conference we ended up giving shortly before Arnulf's death that it was your understanding that she'd found the right man for her and was happily married."

Christian nodded. "Yes, that happened the year after I met you. She was married in 1998, and I remember feeling very glad when I heard about it. Well." He squeezed her, then released her and surveyed the tree. "I think one more string of lights should do it, and then we can get to the fun part—the ornaments."

"Good," Leslie said. "That was always my favorite part."

"We never put up our own," Christian recalled, as if surprised. "The servants always did it for us. It was quite an experience helping you, during our first Christmas together."

Leslie laughed. "That's hard to imagine, not ever getting to decorate your own Christmas tree, royalty or not."

"We lead strange lives," Christian mused, his voice faraway. "So many people think it's glamorous to be a royal, but they have no idea what really happens. Do you suppose those fantasies you and Mr. Roarke grant people who want to experience being royal teach anyone anything? Do you think they change their minds about how wonderful it must be to be a monarch or a prince?"

"I'm sure some do," Leslie said. "But you yourself know that in this day and age, the role of royals is changing and diminishing all the time. Even some ruling royals have gone to work—you're the most famous example of that, but I heard that Prince Edward tried to make a go of a TV production company for a few years."

"He should have gone for something less ambitious," Christian remarked, amused. "I heard about it too." He let the topic die off as he got down on his knees to start winding the lights around the lower branches, and she fed him the string, watching. It gave her an odd sense of pride, wonder and happiness, just watching him move while he did the most mundane things in the world. After a little more than five minutes, he backed out from under the tree and got to his feet, then flicked the switch that the plug on the last string had been inserted into. "Voila!" The tree flared into brilliant, multi-colored life.

"I never get tired of staring at Christmas-tree lights," Leslie said, smiling. "I've always thought there's something magical about them. As if anything on earth could happen if you looked at them long enough."

"Like what?" Christian asked, grinning.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, shrugging a little sheepishly. "Maybe as if you could be wrapped up in a cascade of stars and be transported to anywhere you wanted—maybe some favorite past Christmas, or a day in your life you can't remember but wish you could."

"You have a poet's soul," Christian remarked, drawing her into his arms. "Suppose we start decorating this thing, and by the time our children come back to be mesmerized by the magic you attribute to it, we ourselves can turn our thoughts to such lowly things as what we're going to get Mr. Roarke for Christmas, and whether we'll succeed in convincing my family that spoiling the triplets is not in anyone's best interests, and whether Myeko is going to carry out her plans for a group Christmas party."

"I think we can guarantee that last," Leslie observed with a grin. "Myeko's a born party animal. As for the other two, I wouldn't bet on your family…and the only thing I've ever been able to give Father that seemed appropriate was that silver paperweight he keeps on his desk. And that wasn't even a Christmas gift."

"You mean the one with the rainbow gem set into it? Where did you get that?"

"Mm-hmm. I got it in Santi Arcuros—the year I went to Lilla Jordsö and we didn't meet." They looked at each other and shook their heads, still disgusted at the whole silly thing, and then laughed with resignation. "Okay, well, let's get going here. And by the way, I know we're going to hear it a lot this month, but Merry Christmas, my darling."

"Merry Christmas, my Leslie Rose," Christian said softly and kissed her. "I can hardly wait to see what the new year brings us."

* * *

_I have some romances planned for 2011…not just get-togethers, but breakups as well. No fair peeking! [smile] There are likely to be quite a few flashback stories as well, thanks to some ideas from Mishee and the fact that there are still a lot of tantalizing episodes out there waiting to be adapted. I wish you all wonderful holidays and the very best for the new year! See you in 2011!_


End file.
